


the shuffle of angels' feet

by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe), printersdevils (tuesdaysgone)



Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Kavanagh QC, The Salvation (2014)
Genre: CW: alcohol, Crossover, Gay Sex, Hannibal Extended Universe, Jon Jensen is a cowboy, Jon does his thing, Jon is tortured, Jon's brother survives because we are weak, M/M, Michael has been completely randomly placed into this universe, Michael is a brothel worker, Oral Sex, Sex, Sex Worker AU, Slow Burn, Soz, Spoilers, TW: drug use, Unlikely Pairing, Western AU, contains spoilers for The Salvation, cross dressing, cw: family death, cw: gun violence, cw: mentions of murder, cw: murder, hannigram AU, manual sex, most sex, pretty woman meets a western?, tw: addiction mentions, tw: gun violence, tw: relapse mentions, we like a sex worker Dancy, you know us
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 01:55:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18863374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/gleamingandwholeanddeadly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaysgone/pseuds/printersdevils
Summary: Bereaved, battered and exhausted, Jon Jensen travels to San Francisco and finds a place to lick his wounds a few weeks after the events at Black Creek. The Red Hart inn provides bed, board, and color in the form of the beautiful and engaging Michael Woodley.





	the shuffle of angels' feet

**Author's Note:**

> This is the most bizarre pairing I think we've ever come up with, but hey, here we are. You know us.
> 
> So - we changed the events of The Salvation slightly so that Jon's brother survives, because quite frankly we're not strong enough to kill off Mikael Persbrandt. Regardless, please check out the tags where the cws and tws are listed, as some of the happenings in the story are intense. Also this will spoil the movie if you haven't seen it yet. Heads up.
> 
> Interesting aside: San Francisco apparently was pretty much the gay capital of early goldrush era America, and in the right areas it was apparently pretty common for male sex workers to dress in drag and flaunt their wares. Nice.
> 
> As usual, take our depictions (and historical accuracy) with a pinch of salt, and if you have any questions or concerns, let us know. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, let us know what you think! 
> 
> L & Deadly xo

The sun has sunk out of sight over the barren hills, leaving the sky blush crimson and streaked with stringy dark cloud. Night sounds reach up to meet it, bustling with life, and Jon Jensen takes in the scent of oil and dust as his ride in rumbles away on the crumbling dirt path. San Francisco is the biggest city he's found himself in, these past few months, and it's hard not to be intimidated by that alone.

The first couple of places he tries to find a room in are full, but the third seems quieter. Men in dusty wool and denim crowd the streets, staggering from bright door to bright door, and he could be said to enter as much as escape, into the public house called the Red Hart.

Inside it's hot and close with bodies; cigarette smoke. Jon pushes his way to the bar with grim determination.

The woman behind the bar regards him with empress-like poise. "What can I do for ye?"

"You rent rooms?" Jon asks patiently. He knows his accent is strong, but he's one of thousands of foreigners here in San Francisco.

"Aye, we got a couple. Get y'sorted. Long travels?"

"Very long. Bath water included?"

"Breakfast too." She eyes him again. "And a girl? You pick."

The thought makes Jon cringe instinctively. "No girls, thanks."

"Ah," she says, tapping her chin. "You pay first night in advance, I'll take ye up and order yer bathwater."

He hands over the money, unconcerned: plenty places like this have a better reputation for flesh than beds. All he wants is clean and quiet.

The room is small, but relatively neat. A couple of girls bring a bath, a few inches of warm, rust tinged water in the bottom with some oily soap and a cloth, and he scrubs himself free of grime and tips for the offer of washing his dirt-stiff clothes. They giggle to one another as they take them, and he smiles indulgently and leans against the side of the tub for a moment. Then, he's out and dried and more or less decent for when they come back for the tub, which he's emptied of water at least. The towel around his waist is small but it will do for right now. He's for bed before long.

When the maid comes to collect the bath, she pauses and tilts her chin. "Anything else?"

"I'd love some whiskey," he mutters.

"Comin' right up."

He gives her a few notes; sits on the rickety window sill to look out at the busy town. The faint sound of piano filters in from downstairs, a few grunts and moans from the floor below. He enjoys his little nucleus of relative stillness for a few minutes before a soft rap at the door stirs him again.

"Come in," he says softly, and the face that he sees through the crack in the door is younger and softer than any he's seen today.

"I brought whiskey," says the boy, a faint curl to the corner of his mouth, catlike.

Jon turns to sit at the table and when he looks up, he startles at his proximity. The boy - and he is little more than a boy, by Jon's reckoning - sets down a tumbler and pours him a drink.

"Feeling better now?"

"Tolerably," Jon murmurs. It suddenly strikes him when the boy moves around the table that he's wearing a silk robe, tied loosely at his waist. He's not truly confused until the stranger offers him the glass, so close Jon can feel his warmth where their bare thighs nearly touch.

"Sounds like I've got some work to do," the boy purrs.

"I - no," Jon says quickly. "You brought the whiskey."

"I can bring you a lot more than that." He sets a hand on Jon's knee and leans close.

Jon freezes. All he can see through wide eyes is porcelain skin and dark ringlets. He smells like spices. He catches him gently at the base of his throat and pushes him back. "Wait- wait."

The boy stills. "I'm waiting."

Jon looks over his face; long eyelashes and soft, wavy hair. "I think there's been a misunderstanding."

"You said no girls. Miss Adelaide told me."

"I wasn't aware there was an alternative," Jon tells him, gentle but pointed.

"There is at the Red Hart. This ain't just an inn, you know."

"I'm getting that impression. Even so, it was a misunderstanding."

"That's a shame." His eyes travel down, but even though the words are suggestive, the boy still looks - preoccupied.

"Feel free to have a drink with me," Jon murmurs. "I'm not such good company, but if you'd like to sit with me for a little while..."

"I don't want to intrude." His demeanor changes entirely, cheeks flushing and shoulders drawing as he straightens, hair falling into his eyes.

Jon takes a sip of the glass in his hand. "It's not an intrusion if it helps you. Sit down. Have a drink."

"Don't rightly know if it will," the boy muses.

"How about money, is money the thing that you're worried about?"

A tilted head, ringlets shifting slightly. "What do you think?"

A sigh escapes Jon before he can stop it. He hasn't spoken this much in days. "I have money. Not much, but if I'd have to pay -"

"It's fine, I'll just wait and see if there's anyone else who asks for ‘no girls'." He grins suddenly, a crooked thing. "There always is."

"I can see why," Jon says, as appreciatively as he dares.

"You're sweet," the boy says. "What's your name?"

"Jon. Jensen."

"Nice to meet you, Jon. I'm Michael."

"Nice to meet you too, Michael." He smiles gently. "I hope you get what you want tonight. I'll have a drink for you if you come back some time."

"If you're up later, maybe I'll hold you to that." Michael slowly tosses his hair, exposing the pale line of his neck and shoulder. "Have a good evening, Mister Jensen."

"Good night, Michael."

He watches him go, shifting in his chair, still a little unsettled. He suddenly wonders what he would have found in the first two places he stopped at. Times are changing. The landscape is different every time he looks. Everyone here has too much money, or the promise of it anyway, and the appetites to match.

It's what brought him here, after all. Now, though, that's ash. He had his wife, and his son, and now he has wounds in places he can't heal and no appetite at all. He can catch a ship here, and maybe he should. The journey back to New York would be so long. Impossibly long.

And money. That's an issue. He's picked up a bit here and there over the past few months, and Madelaine had compensated him, despite his protests, for his help - but that won't last forever. There's always someone looking to hire a man like him, though. This he knows. So he picks up work. Earns some money. Maybe he could buy a wagon, or a horse. Transportation - to where, he has no idea. It simply doesn't matter anymore.

That thought brings the first glass shard of grief back to him in as many days. He bites his knuckles to stifle it; squeezes his eyes shut and then, when he can, tops up his glass. He might as well stay here until he can find work, he reflects. The room rates are low, and he doesn't mind what the house women - and boy, he adds - do for a living.

His thoughts catch on Michael and snag, curious. That's not something he's used to. He's just... surprised. He can't stop thinking about the silky skin and delicate collarbones against the rough palm of his hand. He'd looked like a girl, for an instant. Until he spoke. The long hair and the robe were calculated to both obscure and expose.

Jon hopes he's safe, here. That though brings a curl of derision to his mouth: no such thing as safe out here. He hopes the boy is making enough coin to be worth the risk. It makes him sigh: _don't do this, Jon_. It's nothing to do with him. Madelaine had been different. He'd needed to do what he'd done. He doesn't regret it now. And he doesn't think there's a soul in that town who wouldn't be glad.

Jon himself, well, he's...nothing. He can take the fall. It doesn't matter now. Although maybe it matters more than he thinks it does, if he's thinking about leaving America.

Another drink. He moves to the bed and falls into uneasy, nightmare spined sleep. The whiskey is the only thing that keeps him there.

*

The soft voice at the door tugs him out of it again. He groans and throws an arm over his face. When he squints, it's barely dawn, and the boy is there, arms draped with cloth.

"Michael," he rasps.

"I got your laundry," he whispers softly, "sorry to wake you - you looked troubled."

"Troubled," Jon repeats.

"While you slept."

"I'll have to take your word for it, Michael."

"Sorry to have woken you," he whispers, "but I was wondering if the offer of that drink was still on the table."

"Christ, kid. It's not gone seven in the morning."

"Exactly."

Jon pushes himself into a sitting position, blinking past the pile of clothing to get a look at Michael. "Did you sleep?"

"Not really what I'm here for."

Jon waves a hand at the bottle, still perhaps three quarters full. "Help yourself."

He closes his eyes at the trickle of liquid, and then some of his rational thought kicks in through the haze and he sits up again to look at Michael. Currently, he's taking a sip from Jon's refilled tumbler, lashes shading his eyes from view.

"Is something wrong?"

"At this moment," Michael drawls. "I am considering my options for being drunk or fucked into oblivion."

"What do you mean?"

"You won't fuck me," Michael says, flashing him a glance. "So I shall say thank you for the whiskey."

Jon looks him over and sighs. "No one else specify ‘no girls'?"

A skeptical look. "That's not why I'm here."

It's a relief, but Jon doesn't say so. "So just the whiskey?"

"And a moderately friendly demeanor."

Jon nods. "And if I go back to sleep?"

"I'll leave you be, if you like."

"You can stay."

Michael hesitates. Jon thinks he looks different than earlier, hair a little ruffled at the back, his posture altogether less careful. Something has happened.

"Michael," he asks again softly, "what is it?"

"Nothing you need concern yourself with, Mr. Jensen."

"And yet you're in my room."

"I am." He looks solicitous, and then like he thinks better of it. He takes another long drink. Jon is about ready to get up for another one of his own.

"Did you bring another glass?"

"No, but I don't mind sharing." Michael's eyes have gone calculating again.

Jon just gets up and picks up the bottle, refilling Michael's glass before taking a sip from the neck. He realizes after he's done it that he's still naked, but he tries not to think about it. He takes the undershorts Michael brought and pulls them on with a grimace. The boy has likely seen it all, would be Jon's guess.

He doesn't say anything, in any case, just watches as Jon comes to perch on the other little chair. Jon takes another sip of whiskey. "So you never answered. Been to bed yet?"

"Why, wanna cuddle?" Jon just eyes him steadily. "Not yet," Michael relents.

"Is that...usual?"

"It is in this place."

"And yet you're delivering the laundry."

That makes him shrug. "Just saw them and thought of you."

"Kind of you, after I sent you away."

"People do things they regret all the time."

Jon snorts. "You regret the kindness, or you think I regret sending you away?"

"I never regret kindness."

That's him told, then. Deftly done. He bites his lip. "Are you well? Truly. You seem - I trust it's not normal for you to wake tenants up for drinks and secrets."

"Maybe it is if I find them interesting."

"I'm sure someone would have warned me."

"Maybe someone thought you'd just be pleased to have me in your room."

"Apparently so." The boy is relentless, he thinks resignedly.

He gives Jon a decidedly shaky grin. "You'll see if you don't before the end of your stay."

Jon takes another slow drink. "Guess we will." It's as soothing as he can be right at this moment.

Michael takes a sip of his own drink and sighs. "So how did you end up here?"

"Nowhere else to go."

"That's usually how it goes. And how long are you staying with us?"

"I need to find some work, pick up enough pay to keep going. Don't suppose you know of any work going around here?"

"It won't be pretty, if I do," Michael warns.

"I just need it to pay."

Michael laughs. "Don't we all."

Jon sighs and sips his drink. "What about you? You're British, right?"

"Was, I suppose is the correct term. California's even a state now."

"Land of the free," Jon scoffs.

"I'll drink to that," Michael says sourly. They both take a sip. The boy doesn't say anything more about his past, which, Jon reflects, is entirely fair. "You got a family?" he asks Jon.

Jon's jaw tightens. "Not anymore. "

It's all he says. All he can. Michael must see it, because he sighs and presses his lips into a small line of sympathy. It's about as much as Jon can stand. He drinks again.

"I came here with a family too," Michael says, quietly. The weight of it settles on Jon more like a comforting hand than a smothering pressure: understanding. He lets his eyes slip closed.

They stay in the heavy quiet for a long time, passing the bottle back and forth. Eventually, Michael gets to his feet with a sigh. "Time to go sleep this off, I suspect."

"I guess it is." He taps his fingers against the neck of the bottle. "Come back again sometime if you'd like."

"Mm?" Michael smiles. "Not so bad of a mix up?" He takes an unnecessary step closer.

"Go to bed, Michael," Jon murmurs, with a smile.

The disappointment on his face is clear. Jon just assumes it's due to the loss of a potential customer. "Good night, Jon."

"Good morning, Michael."

He flashes him a smile as he takes his leave. Jon's thoughts linger on him a while before he drifts back to sleep. He has nothing tempting him to stay awake. The ride here was long, and hard, and wearying. And for the moment, he feels relatively safe.

*

It's around noon when he finally resurfaces. He washes and dresses; wanders downstairs. The bar already has a few patrons, not that he's surprised in the least. No Michael, but a couple of familiar faces from the night before. Probably other residents.

Jon heads outside onto the street, blinking against the bright heat. He has no set goal, but an itch under his skin to move. He just wants to ask around for work. And hopefully get a feel for this city he's landed in. The farmers back in Wyoming had talked about San Francisco in tones of mingled envy and horror. He's sure he can find a means of adapting. Or else he'll just move on. That's all he can do now.

He figures the docks or the trainyards will be the most likely place to pick up manual labor. Jon's a little older than some of the others that will be looking, he supposes, but maybe his experience will help. He's still strong. And willing.

The first two companies whose offices he tries turn him away, but the manager of the third looks him over and gives him a terse nod. "Aye. We'll have work for you."

"When can I start?"

"This afternoon. We have a ship coming in at three."

"Much obliged," Jon nods. The payment per shift isn't high, but it's better than nothing. He'll just find a place to get a hot meal before the ship comes in.

When he finally sits down with stew and bread in a rundown but comfortable pub, he remembers how hungry he is. The ill-advised early-morning whiskey is wearing off, he supposes. Sighing at the thought, he eats as much as he can fit in, then fills his canteen at a drinking fountain on the way to the docks. It's getting to be hot, and it won't get any cooler.

He looks out at the crowded horizon, and wonders how many weeks it'll take to get out of this place. He wonders if it matters.

Not anymore.

The shift at the yard passes quickly, and he gets a wage packet when the sun has set. He'll have to do a little arithmetic when he gets a chance, figure out how many shifts will buy him passage out of here. The work was physically taxing, but part of that will be from so recently being through the ringer. Meanwhile, he's got plenty of coin for a new bottle of whiskey. And a couple more nights' board.

When he returns to the Red Hart, the common room is much more crowded than the night before. The noise immediately unsettles him, so he moves fast to the bar to let the owner know he's there; put down the fee for another couple of nights and a bottle of whiskey. Maybe he ought to try to find a more respectable boarding house soon.

Though - he pauses at the thought. Surely there would be no one there as singular as Michael.

He goes back to the bar, where the barmaid looks up at him again expectantly. "The boy, Michael. Is he here tonight?"

She laughs. "He's here every night, dearie."

"Good. Give him this, please." He slides over a few coins.

"He's yours for an hour, for this."

That makes him curl his lip. "It's not for that. Call it a tip." Then he rethinks it. An hour for Michael to rest, to be quiet. What would it be worth to him? To Jon it's merely coin. "Send him up," he corrects himself.

She nods, expression shrewd. Jon fights to keep his expression smooth. He goes upstairs to his room; strips off his soiled clothes again.

He might need to buy a second set, he sighs as he washes with the lukewarm water in his washstand. His things are somewhere, lost forever now, something else he'll never get back. Regret is pointless.

He washes up with a jug of water and puts back on his undershirt, just for the sake of decency. He's waiting for company, after all. Jon's still not sure what has possessed him. When Michael knocks on the door, he calls him in with an unfamiliar feeling of nervousness. It doesn't help that he's back in the silk robe.

"Changed your mind?" he quips, locking the door behind him and all but slinking toward Jon. It makes his breath seize up for some strange reason.

"Just thought we could both use a break."

Michael's tilted head, and the way it disarranges his curls, is becoming familiar. "What do you need a break from, handsome?"

Jon just sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. "Everything." He waves vaguely toward the fresh bottle of whiskey. "Drink?"

Michael nods, and moves to pour two drinks. "You didn't pull me up here for sex, then."

"No," Jon murmurs. "You don't have to stay either. I just thought -"

"You thought what?"

"I thought you might want to."

"Did you think I don't like what I do?" Michael purrs.

"I have no idea how you feel about it."

"How do you feel about it?"

"I worry about your safety."

"So do I. That's why I carry this." He reaches into his robe and retrieves a small silver knife.

Jon's eyebrows shoot up. "It's...a knife," he says doubtfully.

"Nothing getting past you, is there?"

"It's not a very big knife."

"Harder to keep in my robe, you see."

"And you know how to use that?"

"I know where the jugular and femoral arteries are." He smiles and pours Jon a glass of whiskey.

"Good to know." Jon takes the whiskey and looks at him over the top of it. "Sit down, Michael."

"Well, if that's what you like," Michael grumbles, but obeys. He takes a cigarillo box out of his pocket and offers Jon one.

Jon laughs and accepts. "What else do you have in those pockets, boy?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

A silence that catches for a moment too long. Then Jon huffs a laugh. "I asked, didn't I?"

"Sugar and spice and all things nice," Michael sing-songs. Jon gives him a skeptical look. "What? It's true." He takes a sip of his drink and licks his lips. "You'd know if you'd let me give you what you paid for."

"That's all right," Jon assures him.

"Suit yourself." He looks sore about it all the same.

"It's been a bad month," Jon says, which is such a grievous, pitiful understatement that it makes his lip curl.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No. No." He smiles, but it's right and watery.

"All right." Michael slumps in his chair, blowing smoke up at the ceiling.

"What about you?"

"Do I want to - what? Talk?"

"Yes."

"Do I look like I need to talk?" Michael drawls.

"Yes," Jon mutters, around his cigarette. He's not expecting much. Not sure if he really wants to listen, either. He listens to Michael's considering silence while he takes another drink.

"I'll keep it in mind," Michael finally replies.

"All right." He takes another drag of the cigarillo, eyes sweeping over the boy through the haze of smoke.

"So you do like it."

"I do. Have something to say about that?"

"No, I'm just interested."

"Want me to tell you stories?" The boy's eyes sparkle.

"Not particularly. You're a handsome boy, obviously bright, capable, I suppose I just wondered why you decided to do this when I'm sure you could make a more traditional living."

"Oh, you want _that_ story."

"If you care to tell it."

"I don't know if I do, honestly."

Jon shrugs. "All right. You can go if you want."

Michael glowers at him for a moment. "I don't. Look, I came here with my family, all right? They were innkeepers in the old country, I know plenty about it. I thought that was what I would end up doing."

"But you didn't."

Michael snorts. "No shit."

Jon isn't much of a conversationalist, and this is enough to extinguish his desire to expand on his skills there. He sighs and just goes back to his drink.

Michael pouts after a moment. "Sorry."

"You're not obligated to be here. You're the one who let yourself in this morning."

"One of these times, you might actually want me here." Michael flashes him a sour smile. "They died, all right? Cholera. Died before we even made it to California."

Jon considers that; weighs whether it's a comfort, that he's not alone even in his loneliness. It feels even more of a wound. "Sorry to hear that."

"Yeah. Well. I came anyway, wasn't like I was going to go back to England. Got a job washing dishes until I was old enough to -" He stalls. "Work the bar."

Jon narrows his eyes. "Mhmm. Just out of curiosity, how old are you now?"

"Twenty four, plenty old enough."

Jon would never have guessed. "So you've been here a while."

"Nearly as long as I haven't been."

Jon sighs. "Do you like San Francisco?"

"It's filthy, I love it."

Jon represses a derisive snort. So... _American_. "Sounds like you fit right in."

"You don't, do you, Mister Jensen."

"That doesn't sound like a question." Jon glances back up at him. "Got another cigar? I'll pay."

Michael hands them over. Jon hands him a coin, more than required, but Michael doesn't refuse. He does, however, give him two cigars.

"Thanks," he murmurs.

"It's all right." Michael climbs onto his bed and stretches out languidly. "So what brought you here?"

"I escorted a woman west from Wyoming. She needed protection."

"From who?"

Who had been left, really, at the end? Except for him. One could argue Madelaine should have had protection from him too. But she had trusted him, and he'd repaid that trust. "From men," he whispers.

Michael nods, still sprawled easily. "Sounds about right." He eyes Jon. "And you're definitely the type."

"What do you mean by that?"

"The protective type. I can tell."

Jon shrugs. "I'm a father." He pauses again, and sighs heavily. Was a father.

It's too late, Michael has already perked up. Maybe he remembers what Jon said in the early hours, because he stalls, and then bites his lip. "That'd do it."

"Do what?" Jon says, voice tight, his eyes prickling.

"Make you protective."

Jon nods. "Suppose so."

Michael shifts again, clearly restless. He stretches; the robe shifts. A sliver of his pale chest, down to his navel, spills into view. Jon hates that he keeps looking. He ought to have better manners. He looks out of the window again instead.

Not much to see. Certainly not any stars, with all the smoke.

"I don't mind, y'know," Michael says.

"Don't mind what, doll?" Jon says distractedly.

"You looking at me. You avoid it like you might catch something. Thought you were just disgusted at first but now I know you're _not_."

Jon's jaw tightens. He could argue that. Should argue that. "What's to be disgusted by?"

"Well, a mouth is a mouth, is my opinion, but not everyone shares it."

"Very modern."

"It ain't as modern as all that. We've been around forever."

Jon nods. He knows that.

"Of course," Michael murmurs, "that's just scratching the surface."

"Yes," Jon agrees.

"Oh!" Michael crows. "So you know all about it, Jon Jensen?"

"No, but I know that the only kind of _preference_ that ever hurt anyone was the desire to persecute others. It doesn't matter to me."

He thinks Michael looks disappointed. "How tedious," he chuckles.

Jon raises a brow. Michael just wags his own at him. He's always _pushing_ , this boy. "Something to say, Michael?"

"I like it when you say my name," Michael coos back.

"And why's that?"

"Your voice just does things to me."

"I see," Jon hums. He thinks Michael's just having a bit of fun at his expense. Can't quite begrudge him it. He watches him inch closer with a slight wariness.

"Maybe it's the accent," Michael muses. "Where are you from, again?"

"I'm from Denmark."

"Are they all so good looking in Denmark?"

Jon sighs. "You're awful."

"I don't think you really think that," Michael grins, leaning closer.

"I certainly think you're relentless and lacking in decorum," Jon grouses.

Michael snorts. "Charmer."

"Takes one to know one."

Michael filches the cigar out of his mouth and takes a drag. "Oh I know that."

He leans back in and places the end of the cigar gently between Jon's lips. Their eyes graze and hold, and Jon takes the cigar back.

"Michael," he mutters.

"Jon?"

"I think you should go now."

Michael's expression ripples for a second before it settles on a sneer. "Coward," he whispers.

Jon swallows. "You have no idea what I am," he whispers back.

Michael gracefully twists to his feet and heads for the door with a faint huff. "I know you're boring."

"I know you're right," Jon sighs.

Michael closes the door behind him with a slight huff. Jon closes his eyes. That went well. Settling further down in his chair, he takes another long puff on the cigar.

"Need fewer attachments, not more," he whispers.

He's certainly going about it the right way, he supposes. He sighs out a lilac plume of smoke and closes his eyes. He needs to leave. As soon as his board runs out here, he'll find a different place to sleep. That will be better for everyone. Right now, he'll just enjoy more of their rather excellent whiskey. The lingering scent of sweetness on the air.

When he lies down, his pillow smells of spices. He fists the edge of the cotton and frowns to himself. "Michael," he mutters to himself. Then he grumbles, and yanks the sheets over his head.

*

Jon makes sure he's up and out early the next morning, buying breakfast on the street and going down to haunt the docks. He gets a shift soon enough, and the next few days follow the same pattern of working until he aches and then heading back to the boarding house to eat and sleep. He even picks up a few spare items of clothing here and there. He's sure the laundry girl will he pleased not to see his dirty things every night. And not to have to dry them as fast as she can in the boiler room to get them back to him in time.

Michael hasn't returned them either, not once. Jon is fine with that, really. He told the bar-matron as much. She's accepted coin for Michael, several times when he's had extra from his pay, and only protested the first time Jon said not to bother sending him up.

Tonight he lays it on the bar with his usual spends, and she hands over his bottle, his whiskey, and says she'll send his dinner up shortly. It's easier this way. His room is quieter than the barroom by far, and he's less likely to see anyone he's not expecting. Still, these four walls are starting to feel a little like a prison cell.

Miss Adelaide looks like she can read it on him. "All right there, Mister Jensen?"

"Long day," he shrugs, pouring his first glass before he even takes it up to his room.

"You sure you don't want me to send this up with Michael?" she says shrewdly. "Ain't what he's here for, to take your money and not do his job."

"No, that's quite all right." He empties the tumbler in one big mouthful. "I might be moving on soon," he tells her. "You have me paid up through the week?"

"I do, Mister Jensen. Be a shame to see you go."

"You've been very accommodating," he tells her with a nod. Finally, he feels he's exceeded his conversation quota for the day. "Thank you, Miss Adelaide. Good night."

He and his bottle make their way upstairs. His room has been tidied and his bed linens changed, and when he closes the door behind himself, he sinks into the bed with a sigh. He'll just close his eyes while he waits for his food.

He must be more tired than he realized, because he's jolting awake again at the sound of the door. He sits up with a groan and a faint air of confusion. "Come in?"

He's suddenly awake at the sight of Michael, bearing his supper tray and a thunderous expression.

"Michael," he rubs his eyes, "what's wrong-?"

"I'm sick of this, is what the problem is," he hisses, setting the tray down rather carelessly.

Jon blinks quickly, sitting upright as Michael advances. "What - sick of what?"

"Of being paid to stay away from you, you hateful old man!"

"What -" it's all Jon can manage to say, transfixed by Michael's red cheeks and glittering eyes.

He grabs Jon's shirt and crowds close, his soft, fair hands white knuckled and his hair in snarls around his face. "You _want_ me," he hisses, "and I'm a little sick of you pretending that you _don't_."

"But I don't - I haven't - " Jon is utterly speechless.

"Why do you keep leaving word that I'm not to come to your room?"

"I just... wanted you to have a bit of extra to tuck away. Not in exchange for anything."

"I don't need your _charity_ ," Michael hisses, "I like to earn my money."

"So go earn it," Jon says as gently as he can. "I'm not holding you here."

Michael's eyes flash. He leans back, breathing hard, and his brows furrow. "Why don't you want me here?"

Jon stares. "I just didn't want you to feel obligated..." He scrubs his hands over his face. "I wouldn't knowingly saddle anyone with me. Even for money."

"That's my choice to make!" His hand tightens in Jon's shirt. "You want me," he breathes.

"Michael," Jon's senses come back to him, and he touches his shoulders, "I want to help you. That's all."

"I don't need help!" Michael cries.

"Then I'll stop. I didn't mean to offend you-"

"Well you sure did a good job of it." Michael's expression is less aggressive than sulky, now. He's still holding onto Jon, and Jon's still holding him off, albeit gently.

"Michael, you said you needed money, and I wanted to try and help you. I - I certainly wasn't trying to undermine you, forgive me -"

"I believe you, for what it's worth." He's still frowning.

"I wouldn't lie about that," Jon whispers. He folds suddenly, surprising Michael into letting go of him as he sits back on the bed. "They died," he mutters, head hanging down between slumped shoulders. "Murdered right in front of me, Michael. I haven't been the same since."

He hears his startled breath, and then feels his hands on the tops of his shoulders. "Jon..."

"I will _never be the same_." Jon hisses it at his hands, dangling between his knees.

"I know. I know." Michael's hands comb gently through his hair. "Jon... I'm sorry... I made it about me," Michael whispers. "I'm sorry, I know better now."

Jon still doesn't move, breathing hard through the lingering fear that resurfaces when he thinks about their loss. "Nothing means much to me anymore," he mutters. "I just wanted to do something good." He breathes out hard against the sting, and Michael's hand finds his cheek, lifting his face.

"You are not to blame for their deaths, though," he whispers.

"Not theirs." He takes a deep breath, and he can't even be angry when Michael strokes through his hair again. "The men that did it. I killed them."

"Good," Michael says. He strokes under Jon's eye with his thumb. "You don't like bullies, do you Jon?"

"No," Jon murmurs. He closes his eyes as Michael strokes his hair back from his forehead, gentle fingers picking strands back from his eyes.

It feels so good to be touched that his stomach is starting to twist and lurch. When Michael leans in, he startles back, but his arms just fold around his neck in a careful embrace.

"Let me hold you, Jon. I can do that for you."

It's hard to do it at first, hard to let him, and then he uncoils carefully and Michael seats himself more closely against his side, their chests flush and his curls tickling against Jon's neck and jaw as he holds on.

Jon lets his face tuck into the creamy neck. He carefully folds his own hands against Michael's back, staggered by the scent of him - by just how comfortable it is, being held by a boy in the dark back bedroom of a brothel-and-board pub.

Michael sighs his name again, just the breath of it.

"I'm sorry," Jon whispers.

"I know." He gives a gentle squeeze. "I forgive you."

They breathe together for a moment more. Finally, Jon remembers himself, and lets go with a sigh.

"You don't have to," Michael murmurs.

He doesn't know exactly what to say, so he just squeezes his sides gently. "Thanks."

That makes Michael let go too. He sits back on the end of Jon's narrow bed, picking at the hem of his robe. "C'n I just ask one thing?" he murmurs.

"Yes, Michael."

"You were never attracted to me? Not at all?"

Another heavy sigh. What can Jon say to that? "What's this about? Why does it bother you so much?"

"Being able to read things right is the only way I have to keep myself safe," Michael says, a trace of bitter creeping back in.

"I haven't really thought about it much," Jon lies, stricken at the thought of what kind of man that makes him, "but I do care about you." That much, at least, is true."

Michael sighs. "Better than a boy like me deserves, I suppose."

"No, much less."

Jon closes his eyes. He wants to sleep. He wants to drink. He wants Michael's small, warm body back against his. He can have all three of those things, if he lets himself. He sighs at the thought: it would only be proper to have two of those things. And only one is strictly good for him.

"So you came because you were angry that I didn't want to see you?" He frowns. "Why would you be angry about that-?"

"You're a bit of an idiot, aren't you Jon?" Michael says with an expression of mixed fondness and frustration.

He shrugs: possibly.

Michael sighs. "Because I want to fuck you, you beautiful idiot."

Jon swallows his shock, but he can't quite restrain the hitch of his breath. Michael's frankness is... dangerous. Terrifying. He doesn't know how to respond to such a thing. "As a... customer-?" He hesitates to categorize it any other way.

Michael eyes him shrewdly. "That depends on you."

"Michael..." Jon shakes his head, confused. It all feels too raw right now. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked that."

"It's a fair question. I can tell you don't have any answers so...I guess I'll leave you to your dinner."

Jon bites his lip. "You can stay, if. If that would please you."

"I have other things to be getting on with," Michael says lazily. "I can come back when I'm done working..."

Jon just half nods, half shrugs: _if you like_.

Michael eyes him shrewdly. "Save me some whiskey," he decides.

"Sure." Jon's stomach is uneasy. He tells himself it's hunger.

"See you later," Michael says silkily, drawing himself up off the bed and wandering to the door. This time Jon doesn't manage to look away. It earns him a little cut of a smile.

He shouldn't feel like this, he's sure. With a sigh, he gets up to eat his dinner. It's gone rather cold, at this point. Still better than nothing.

After he's finished, he tries to sleep. His mind flashes through the last few months; the gnawing ache of loss. The destruction of his life; his retaliation. He dreams about it often. Now when he finally drifts off, he dreams of Michael. It's all warmth and twining limbs and silk.

When he jerks awake again, it's to his soft voice through the door. "Are you awake?"

He shuffles to the door and opens it. _Tired_. That's how Michael looks. Jon opens the door wider for him. "Come in."

Michael slips through and goes straight to the little table with the bottle and glasses.

"Michael?" Jon closes the door, moving hesitantly toward him. "Is everything okay?"

"There's a man," Michael says thoughtfully, "who comes round every few weeks. He's not easy to deal with."

"Not easy in what way?" Jon frowns.

"His preferences are very specific, and his patience is nearly nonexistent." Michael flicks his robe off one shoulder to expose a bruise there, the clear splay of fingers.

Jon hasn't felt such a hot, sharp burst of anger in weeks. He stares a moment longer, and then runs a hand over his beard. "Is he still here?"

"Maybe," Michael shrugs. "Why?"

"Just tell me what room?" He keeps his voice even.

"Jon, you're not gonna go after him."

"No. I just want to remind him of his manners."

"Jon - " Michael's eyes widen but Jon is already on his feet.

"Which room, please?"

"He's in the bar," Michael whispers.

"What's his name."

"P-Patrick."

"All right. Stay here." Jon pulls on an overshirt and his jeans; boots.

Michael seems frozen. He stays though. Jon closes the door and heads down to the bar with tunnel vision.

"Show me Patrick," he growls to Miss Adelaide behind the bar.

She doesn't, but her eyes dart, and when Jon turns there's a grizzled man getting to his feet. "Got something to say?"

"Learn some manners," Jon growls. He doesn't stop walking, and before he can stop himself he's colliding with the patron.

He's old and tough, but Jon is filled with righteous fury, and after the first initial rush he sweeps him out the front doors and into the street. He can't even speak, just bears him down into the dirt with his teeth out and eyes flashing. Beneath him, Patrick's eyes reflect fear.

"Stay away from here," Jon breathes, "and keep your hands off the residents."

"Or what?" the man spits out despite the threat, blood running down from nose to chin.

"Or I'll make you regret it twofold." Breathing hard, Jon gets to his feet. "Understand?"

"I paid my coin," Patrick protests.

"You took more than you were owed. You left marks."

"So? Insolent little prick needs to learn."

"Learn what?" An acrid nausea creeps in at the words.

"To know his place." He swipes the blood off his face and spits again.

Jon draws over him, and raises his fist. "Sounds like he's not the only one."

Hitting feels so good. He'd nearly forgotten. Nothing excessive, just unconsciousness and some missing teeth. When he's done, Jon leaves him on the floor and heads back inside. He exchanges a look with Miss Adelaide. "Ought not to let him back in."

"Right you are," she says, and then, "is Michael all right-?"

"He'll be fine."

"You're a good man to have around, Mr. J," she says, pushing a shot of whiskey over the bar.

He takes it with him up the stairs, mindless for anything but getting back to Michael. The boy shoots to his feet as the door opens, having apparently subsided onto the bed at some point.

"Jon - you're bleeding!" His brows draw, hands coming up automatically to his jaw. "I told you not to - Jesus."

"I'm fine," Jon says gruffly, shrugging out of his shirt and boots.

"Stop, you're not, let me look."

"I'm fine," Jon repeats, helpless against the small hands that push him into a chair.

Tutting softly, Michael gets a rag and wets it. "You didn't have to do this. Bruises fade." He dabs gently at the trickle of blood from a bitten lip, a split knuckle.

"Not all of them," Jon mutters, "you shouldn't let people hurt you. You're not an object."

"When they pay you, sometimes they get confused. Occupational hazard."

"It shouldn't be a hazard, you have enough of those."

Jon's blood is still up, only slowly subsiding. "It's all right," Michael soothes.

"It's not." He drops his head into his hands, trying to breathe.

Michael sinks to his knees in front of him, stroking his hair. "Jon, I can't believe you did that."

"Why can't you-?"

"It's not - there's no reason for you to get involved, really."

"But he hurt you."

"Yes," Michael sighs.

"That's reason enough."

"So you're going to protect me, eh Jon?"

He looks up at that. Though his voice was cool, Michael has pink touching the very tops of his cheeks. "Is that too trite for you?"

Michael bites his lip. "You can't do it forever."

"No," Jon agrees, reluctantly, but he feels empty and ineffective now the adrenaline is dropping back. "It felt good," he whispers. He feels Michael's hands tightening. He shakes his head automatically, like a dog.

"It's all right," Michael whispers, "it's all right."

  
His arms come up around Jon's neck again, and Jon can't do anything but hold him again, adrift in the tide of his own misery. He should be comforting Michael, he thinks. Michael who still looks so very tired.

"Can I do anything for you-?" he asks, pulling back, uncomfortable with the contact but not exactly for the reasons he should be.

Michael looks up at him from the floor. It's enough to make his heart gallop a bit, but Michael only blinks. "I never got that drink..."

Levering himself up, Jon passes him the measure from Miss Adelaide and pours himself another from the evening's bottle. When Jon sits down again, Michael leans his cheek against Jon's knee.

"Michael, come up off the floor, you can sit on the bed-"

"M'fine here."

Jon watches him, torn. A split second goes by before he decides he can't let him sit on the dirty ground, and he stands and gently pulls him up, guiding him to the bed. He gives him his drink when he's settled and sits down beside him, the two of them perched on the narrow cot with their backs against the white washed wall. Michael leans against his shoulder instead.

When a few minutes have passed, he downs his whiskey, sets the glass aside, and then lays his head in Jon's lap, making an agitated noise - "Just for a minute, okay?" - when he tenses.

Jon takes a deep breath. "All right, Michael."

He struggles for where to put his hands, baffled by how these people keep falling into his life - or in this case, his lap. Finally, he sets one on his knee, the other delicately onto Michael's shoulder. It's warm in the room, and the burst of adrenaline from the fight has left him tired. His eyes drift shut almost without his permission. It's been so long since he's truly had a quiet, restful moment. Michael's trust feels - dangerous, unwarranted, but good.

It's longer than a minute. He wakes when Michael moves. A stretch, at first, like nothing so much as a small curled animal. The movement of Jon's hand to soothe him is automatic. He drags his palm down the boy's spine, soft and steady.

He pauses when Michael shivers, but he still seems to be asleep, unconcerned and comfortable, which Jon envies. His back is getting a little stiff against the wall, so he gently eases Michael up, letting him lie on the bed proper while he gets up to stretch. His joints pop in a satisfying manner, and he sighs. Proof he's getting old, perhaps. He eyes the bed and its occupant longingly. It's morning, though, and he can hear the wake up calls down the hall.

He should go. Michael can stay here. He hesitates: will he be angry Jon didn't wake him sooner? He realizes he has no idea what Michael does all day. That he's deliberately made sure it's so.

Biting his lip, Jon decides to let him sleep: he was up near enough all night. He'll perhaps make an early night of it, tonight. Just to see. To check in at the bar and check that Michael is feeling... better.

*

It makes for a terribly distracting day. He's still exhausted when he gets back, but the sun is only just starting to set.

There's a brief lull in conversation as he steps into the bar. If that's ever happened before, he hasn't noticed. After a pause, Miss Adelaide holds out his usual, with a solid nod of greeting.

"Will you want your meal?" she asks.

"Down here," he replies.

She nods, and he goes to take a seat, aware of the quiet still. He looks around slowly, letting his posture show no tension. One of his onlookers is a girl he recognizes from his first night here, bringing the bathtub, and she holds his gaze before she gives him a slow smile. It doesn't feel flirtatious, though, it feels - appreciative.

He nods, and when Miss Adelaide brings his dinner over, she gestures to ask if she can sit down. Jon nods, hoping he doesn't have to talk too much.

"I have a proposition for you," she says, straight in.

"I'm listening." He starts to eat, wary of the attention on him from other patrons.

She can sense it. "Ignore them," she suggests. "The reason they don't have better manners is the same reason I think you can help me."

"All right." He nods to prompt her.

"I need a set of muscles around here to take care of my girls and boys. Nothing complicated. Last night was a good start, they'll already think twice."

"Sounds like a big job," he mutters.

"It'd mean staying down here in the evenings," she says dryly.

"Sounds enticing," he says dryly.

"I pay better than the docks."

"All I'd see is this place."

"Only if you chose to," Miss Adelaide says patiently.

Jon looks up, and he finally spots Michael sweeping into the bar, soft and golden and smiling.

"And of course," Miss Adelaide adds like she's been waiting, "you'd be taking care of Michael."

He's still watching him; can't help himself. After a moment, he looks down at his plate again. "Paid?"

"Paid. Room and board included."

He eats another mouthful, and shrugs, "I'll think about it."

She shrugs too. "You said you were moving on. If it was because of money, I'm just giving you a reason not to."

His eyes wander to Michael again briefly. "How often?" he says gruffly.

She seems to decipher his meaning immediately. "For him? Every couple weeks, maybe. For my girls? Less often, but usually worse." She harrumphs. "I have a shotgun behind the bar for emergencies."

His lip curls automatically at the thought.

Watching him, she nods slightly to herself, then stands up. "I'll let you finish your dinner, Mr. J."

"Thank you," he mutters.

Alone again, he goes back to watching Michael. Less obviously, this time. He's dressed for once, albeit somewhat scantily. His breeches are laced low on his hips, and he's only buttoned a single button of the soft linen shirt. Rebuttoned, perhaps.

He talks briefly to a couple of the girls, and then like magic his attention turns to Jon. He smiles, just a brief bright flash of teeth.

Jon makes himself nod a polite greeting back, silently willing him to keep his distance. He sees the expression on his face turn a little sour, and he moves on further down the bar. Jon watches him grin at other drinkers and silently considers. Could he watch this, every night?

Could he protect Michael every night? That part, at least, is a no-brainer.

The younger of the two women catches his eye and smiles again. He looks away; sets down his cutlery and gets to his feet. Enough staring for the night. Someone's going to get the wrong idea. It might even be him. All he wanted was to check Michael was all right, and he clearly is. More than.

Time for more whiskey. Maybe it will help him think. Or forget this mess he's in. Truly, he must be cursed.

The thought makes him collapse onto the bed, exhausted and overwhelmed. If only prayer were worthwhile. But he knows, from his frantic dash to find his family, from those first tentative mornings of travel in this new world, that if God is real, he isn't taking complaints right now. He'll just have to do for himself.

Sipping his drink, he thinks about what Miss Adelaide said; the knowing warmth in her eyes. She's exploiting him, he knows, and putting him in an emotional trap: how can he move on, knowing Michael and the others of his ilk here are in constant danger of the worst kind of violence?

He never intended to be a weapon of a man. He wanted to be gentle, and do good, and keep his family safe. By the looks of things, he's not in line to get anything he wants any time soon. He knows it like he knows he'll say yes.

The realization makes him thump his fist against his own thigh, cursing quietly, dropping his face into his hand and taking a shaky breath. He misses his family. He misses having hope. In this city of hopeful idiots, he thinks. He couldn't be more out of place.

That makes him think of Michael again, flashing that little silver knife at him when they first met. Hadn't helped him last night, he guesses. Or maybe he did the math and decided to just accept it. Both bring acid to the back of Jon's mouth. He washes it away with another mouthful of his drink.

He lies back on the bed, looking up at the gloomy ceiling, fingers laced on his chest. He'll have to familiarize himself with the rest of the house. He doesn't even know where Michael and the girls sleep, or where they work.

He'll have to introduce himself. Properly. So they know where to come if they have a problem. As miserable as he is, there's a creeping sort of relief at having a task at hand. And though he can't stay forever - he really can't, his brother will be waiting for word - he can do something _good_.

He closes his eyes. Sleep is, as ever, ready to greet him with nightmares in her arms.

*

He weathers them as he has for the past few months. When he wakes with a jerk, he's misted with sweat. He seems to have slept through the night, however. At least most of it. Jon sits up groggily, rubbing his eyes. Reaching for his coat, he checks his pocket watch. He could score an early at the dock if he's quick. Then he remembers Adelaide's offer. He pauses, and then sighs, getting up to go downstairs: he can catch her before the others wake up.

Sure enough, it's that witching hour when the drinkers and carousers have crawled off to bed, and she's pouring hot water into a solitary teacup in the kitchen. She startles briefly when she catches sight of Jon, then seems to force herself to relax.

"Quiet for a big man, aren't ye?"

"I didn't mean to alarm you," he apologizes.

"I know, Mr. J. Suppose I'm a bit tired, myself."

"You haven't been to bed yet?"

"Someone has to lock up," she says unconcernedly.

He nods. "Mm. I thought about your offer."

He accepts the cup of tea when she pushes it toward him and starts pouring a new one.

"I want to help. Will you let me know when the girls and - boys - are all available and I'll introduce myself, so they know who to come to if they're having a problem."

"You've met most of them, Mr. J. But of course."

"Even so. I'd like to make it official."

"That's fine. Make it mid-afternoon. Why don't I have Michael take you up to their sitting room when they're ready?"

Jon shrugs. She eyes him, a bit too shrewdly. Jon waits her out; looks her over while he does, with polite interest.

She's weathered and freckled, with red hair streaked with blonde-to-white of age. Miss Adelaide, it seems, has chosen an unorthodox brood to mother. Perhaps she came here with a different profession, herself. He's not sure he ought to ask.

"Michael seems to have taken quite the liking to you," she says, simply.

He scowls slightly. "I don't know why."

"Nor do I, honey." He can't help looking at her askance. "Well I don't. Never happened before."

"No?"

"No." She smiles.

He looks back down at the tea mug, not sure what to say to that. Thankfully, she doesn't make him.

"Pay is weekly. All right?"

"Yes, ma'am. That suits. Any problem if I still work mornings at the docks?"

"Not by me, except that you'll be up all hours of the night as well. Might want to think about getting your rest where you can." She glances up at the ceiling. "S'what they do."

Jon pauses, then nods. "All right. In that case, I suppose I'll be about my business for a few hours."

"Suit yourself, Mr. J."

He tips his chin, and pulls on his coat from his room and heads out: he'll need to see about some means of defending people outside of just the two fists god gave him. He'll never be so unprepared again. He has a pistol, but only one bullet left. Now, it seems, that might not be enough.

*

That evening, Jon stands in front of all twelve of Miss Adelaide's charges (two boys, the rest girls) and lets her introduce him. Some of them are the maids and kitchen girls he's already met; it seems most of them work in the upper rooms as well.

"My room is at the end of the hall on the second floor," he mutters, "if you can't find me elsewhere."

"You're always welcome here in the upstairs sitting room," one of the older girls says. Gloria, he thinks.

He's not quite sure what to say, so he just bows his chin in acknowledgement. The entire time he's been in here, he's felt Michael's eyes on him. When he glances his way now, as the others start to disperse, he looks conflicted and unsure like he did the first night Jon met him.

Jon lets their gaze hold. Finally, Michael pushes himself up off his perch and comes toward him.

"Michael," Jon murmurs.

"Hello, Mister Jensen." He's in that silk robe of his again, looking so very much like that boy who slipped into his room the first night. He puts his hands on his hips and tilts them. "So you're staying here to protect me."

"And Gloria, and Betty, and Paul, and Carmen, and the other ones whose names I've not learned yet."

"Peter," Michael offers.

"An apostle, then," Jon huffs.

"Well he does like following bearded men around."

"That a warning, Michael?"

"Oh no, you're too young for him."

"Well." Jon's not sure what to say to that.

"A joke," Michael follows up. "Do you ever laugh?" he murmurs.

"Not recently."

"If it ever happens, I sure hope I'm around to see it."

Jon shrugs. "Depends I suppose."

"I suppose." Michael's eyes are soft despite his tone. He reaches out to pick imaginary lint off Jon's waistcoat. "Maybe if you feel like it, now you're one of us, we can have a drink later."

"We have a drink most nights." He certainly notices when they don't.

"A proper drink," Michael shrugs.

"If you like." Jon knows he can't avoid the barroom forever.

Michael sighs, fidgeting with his robe. "Maybe you could see my room."

God preserve him, he wants to. "Maybe, Michael."

"What about right now?"

"Right now?" He stalls. Michael waits, brow furrowed. Taking a breath, Jon shrugs a shoulder. "All right."

Michael's sudden smile is brilliant. "Come on!" He reaches for Jon's hand. He's helpless to do anything but go with him.

He leads him up another flight of stairs. Jon struggles not to feel like he's invading somewhere private, especially when they cross a few of the others in various states of under dressed. In Michael's room, there's an unexpected explosion of colored silk, dried flowers, and a screen up in one corner. This is obviously his private quarters. Jon feels an unexpected heat rush to his chest and throat.

"Sit down," Michael offers politely. He does, though stiffly. "Drink?" he offers.

"All right."

Michael goes to pour. He slides onto the battered little chairs beside Jon with a smile, holding out his cup. "It's good to have you up here."

"Is it? Why's that?"

"You seem closer to smiling. You like my room?"

"It's - very you."

"Is it? It's just things I like. Things I scrounged from downstairs. Some gifts."

"Gifts, huh?"

Michael picks up a waterfall of brightly painted silk. "It got around that I liked them, I suppose." He loops it gently around Jon's shoulders, tying it off loosely. "You suit red."

The fabric is butter-soft and smells like spices, that is, like Michael. "I've been told," he says, examining the end of the scarf.

"Oh?" Michael folds himself into a tailor's seat on the bed, now.

"My wife. Before I left to join my brother at the ranch, she gave me a bandana." He smiles. "So I'd look like a real cowboy, y'know? She said red suited me."

"You smiled," Michael murmurs.

"I'm terribly sorry."

"I liked it. Where was your ranch?"

"Wyoming. It was my brother's, we came here after the war, a fresh start y'know."

"Our war or yours?" Michael asks.

"Ours."

"Not gold then, just a farm."

"Yes, horses and cattle."

"Better than gold," Michael says.

"I prefer them," Jon agrees.

"You really do, don't you." Michael peeks over at him and smiles.

"To most people, too," Jon admits.

"I can understand that." They share a smile. "That's two," Michael murmurs.

"I thought you were after laughter."

"Smiles will do."

"You had better start keeping tallies."

He has to bite back another one when Michael actually rummages out a bit of brown paper and a pencil. He draws two deliberate lines. They both jump when there's a soft knock at the door.

Jon whips the scarf from around his neck in a flash. Michael eyes him knowingly. "Come in," he calls.

It's Carmen. "You have a customer, Michael," she murmurs. Jon gets to his feet immediately.

"Are they waiting in the parlor or in a room?" Michael asks calmly.

"In the parlor."

"Pour them a drink on me, I'll be there shortly."

She nods and closes the door behind her.

"Sorry to cut this short," Michael murmurs. He nods at the scarf. "You ought to keep that, you do suit it better than I do."

Jon just shakes his head, moving toward the door to open it for Michael. "Be careful," he mutters.

"I always am."

"You'll let me know if something doesn't seem right?"

Michael reaches up to pat his cheek. "Of course, Jon." More styptic silence. Jon takes a breath, then nods and lets him pass. "You can stay here if you like," Michael adds softly.

"I uh- don't think-"

"I'd like you to," Michael adds, "just this once."

Jon nods. "Let the girls know I'm here."

"I will."

Full of misgivings - as ever - he goes back to his chair, touching a small stack of books on the side table. He picks up a battered hardback and scans the back idly. He should have picked up a few books before this. It's a guilty sort of reprieve to vanish into the book for a while.

It's not exactly the sort of novel he'd have suspected someone of Michael's age to enjoy. It's certainly not one he expected to find sympathetic - _Pride and Prejudice_. Flipping back to the front cover, he sees a name written in fading ink in a delicate hand: Marguerite Woodley. He sighs softly. Oh, Michael.

He can't pretend he hasn't seen it, so he reads on, despite being somewhat exhausted by the story. The writing, at least, is very fine. And there is humor, and sympathy. He can't fault Michael's mother her taste. Nor Michael for sentimentality.

The bustle of feet in the halls occasionally diverts his attention. He keeps an ear out for not only Michael but other general disturbance. He wonders if Adelaide would prefer him sitting in the barroom. Hopes she wouldn't.

He will, as soon as he's seen Michael is all right - and as soon as he's dismissed him from his room. Until then...he looks around the small, colorful chamber and sighs.

He has made his way through a reasonable portion of the book before Michael returns. His eyes are drawn to his loose gait, the careless drape of his robe.

"Jon..." Michael somehow looks surprised to see him. "You stayed..."

"You asked me to." Jon closes the book carefully and sets it aside.

"I thought you'd..." he stops, then smiles. "You stayed because I asked you to. I'm not used to people doing what I ask."

"It was a reasonable request," Jon replies.

"Are unreasonable ones discarded?"

"If they must be."

"What counts as unreasonable, in your book?" Michael cocks his head, expression turning coy.

Jon tenses automatically. "Only that which is motivated by cruelty, Michael."

Michael nods, pushing his curls back off his face. "Do you think I'm cruel?"

"I think sometimes you consider it."

"Sometimes," Michael whispers. He comes closer, perches on the arm of Jon's chair. Jon smells a whiff of sweat, covered by cloves. "Is it cruel to ask for things that I simply want?"

"No," Jon murmurs.

"May I ask for one more thing, before you go?"

"Yes, Michael?"

He sees him dip his chin, soft curls falling into his eyes. "I called for a bath, it'll be here any second."

"Yes-?"

"Stay with me? I can put the screen up if you like."

Jon wants to ask why, but he can't truly find any cruelty in the request save for perhaps the strain of his own restraint and embarrassment. "I shouldn't be too long Michael, the others..."

"It would be the best part of my day," Michael hums.

Well. That's just unfair. "Ten more minutes," Jon relents.

Michael smiles. A breath of a touch on Jon's cheek. "That's enough."

He slips down off the arm as the knock on the door sounds for his bath. It's carried by two of the other brothel workers.

 "We take care of one another," Michael murmurs at Jon's curious look. "Sometimes we even share. Mind moving that?" Michael nods at the screen when Jon fails to find a response.

He retrieves it, hands careful. He sets it up in front of the tub, trying not to blush as the two girls duck out. He narrowly avoids the flailing sash of Michael's robe as he unties it, swinging himself around the other side of the screen just before Michael throws it over the corner. He does not avoid hearing his pleased sigh as he gets in.

"Mm, it's deeper than usual."

"Someone in the kitchen is fond of you," Jon suggests, trying to breathe normally.

"Everyone is fond of me."

"I don't doubt it." The spicy scent curls into his nose again.

"Are you fond of me, Jon?"

"Yes," Jon admits.

He sees a little flash of Michael's eyes in the narrow crack of the screen. "Good," he says softly. He shifts, and sighs, and the water makes a silvery sound. "I won't be long. Will you pass me the towel? By the window?"

Jon stands, fetching the soft woven cotton and draping it over the top of the screen. He hears Michael stand, water trickling off him. For a moment he senses them both motionless, separated by a single silk screen. Then, Michael pulls the towel around himself with a sigh.

"That's better."

He comes around the screen, hair just a little damp, droplets of water like a necklace across his clavicles. The towel is tucked around his waist, and he goes to rummage in a chest across the room.

"I should go," Jon says.

"Should you?"

"Yes, I should." He keeps his voice firm.

"You want to stay?"

"I knew what I wanted when I got on a stagecoach to Wyoming Territory," Jon murmurs.

"But you don't know now?"

"No, Michael. I still don't know."

He nods, brows dipping together and lips up in a little moue. "I wish you did."

"We can't all be like you, Michael. I'll tell you when I know."

"Go, then," Michael murmurs.

With a deep breath, Jon does. He goes downstairs to the bar, finding an empty table in the corner. The bar is already alive with noise and music and chatter. It grates almost immediately.

Jon drinks a beer, and keeps an eye out, and tries not to feel surprised when the girls start to cycle into the seat beside him throughout the evening at short shifts, like touching base before running another race. He keeps an eye on which men they take upstairs, memorizing faces for the future.

All in all, it seems a relatively tame evening. He suspects it's usually like this, which makes him wonder why Miss Adelaide feels the need for...him. But, she's willing to pay him, and there are certain perks to being here a while longer, he's sure.

He only gets up once more, to intervene in a simple scuffle at the bar over one drunk elbowing another. He's feeling a little useless, all in all, when someone else drops into the seat beside him. The scent of cinnamon and liquorice.

"Can I get you a drink?" Michael purrs, pressing warm to his side. He looks a little flushed, blurry and disheveled.

"You already did," Jon murmurs. Surely that was tonight. This Michael looks different, and Jon hesitates to guess reasons why.

" _Another_ drink then."

He looks at his pocket watch, and the emptying bar. "Very well." When he glances up, he catches Miss Adelaide's eye; her quick glance at Michael. It's a look he recognizes: _keep an eye on that_.

He will. He would anyway. He turns his attention back to Michael.

"You're usually still busy by now."

"I'm busy now," he smiles.

Jon looks around for another customer, but then Michael hitches up his robe and slides himself smoothly into Jon's lap, touching his shoulders. Jon freezes.

"Michael," he mutters, and then startles when the boy tucks himself against his chest, huddling small. All right, he can - allow this. He looks around, unease jarring him. "Michael, you need to go to bed."

"Only if you go with me," he hums.

"If you are too drunk to walk to your room, Michael-"

"I am, carry me."

Jon wants very much, with a still-functioning part of his mind, to point out that Michael walked over to him just now. But he forces himself to take a breath. _Not cruel_. Wanting comfort and care, he reminds himself, is not cruel. Bracing himself, he shifts Michael's legs over his arm and lifts him.

He catches Adelaide's eye again. She doesn't look disapproving, just faintly tired. Jon sympathizes. He carries Michael through the back and up the stairs, back complaining only faintly.

Michael lays his head on Jon's shoulder. He seems exhausted, and exactly as drunk as Jon first thought.

"Who were you drinking with, boy?" Jon murmurs.

"Just - braver y'know?" Michael says, indistinct.

"Braver?"

"It's a form of acting."

Jon gives a non-committal hum in answer as he pushes into Michael's room, carrying him to the bed. Michael grabs his sleeve when he deposits him on the mattress.

"Don't go just yet-?"

"Don't you think you ought to sleep it off?"

"I know but if I go to sleep now, when I wake up you'll be gone."

"And that's bad because?"

"Because... I miss you when you're gone."

"Jesus, Michael."

His face shadows with regret, eyes drifting down. "I'm sorry-" His fingers scrabble for Jon's wrist.

"It's all right, Michael. You've had a lot to drink, let me get you some water."

Michael grumbles but lets go. Watching him curl up, Jon pours some water and pauses over him with it, itching with the desire to do as he's bid; stay and soothe and comfort him.

He hands the water over first. Michael sits up and takes a long few gulps and Jon pushes his hair out of his face for him.

"Has something upset you?"

"It's just not always easy to pretend I want it," Michael mumbles.

"You're allowed to say no," Jon murmurs.

"No, really? You think I want every single one of these stupid, dirty old men? They pay me to pretend really well," Michael says, surprisingly unslurred.

"Well," Jon isn't quite sure how to respond to that, "everyone has off days."

"I don't. I need this money," Michael replies. "I'm not good at stopping, you see."

"Stopping what?" Jon murmurs.

"From feeling good, y'know? Before I started working for Miss Adelaide I still did this but - well, let's just say I had certain habits that got out of hand."

Jon hums, pushing more curls back from his face.

"And I don't do that anymore," Michael presses, accent going crisp and then slurred again, "but I _miss_ it."

"Okay," Jon murmurs.

"You see?" Michael looks at him helplessly, eyes reflecting the distant street lights in the dark of his room, "I miss things that make me feel good."

Does he mean -? God, Jon shouldn't be here.

"You are a man of few words, aren't you Jon?" He laughs softly now, leaning into him.

"Usually." Jon gives in and puts his arms around him again. He hates how guilty Michael's little noise of content makes him feel. But Michael melts into him. He seems so small and young. And all it takes to soothe him is - this.

Decided for now, Jon sits up on the bed and pulls Michael up against his chest, where he sighs and settles with a long hum of bliss.

"Feels - so good."

"Go to sleep," Jon prompts, patiently. He doesn't think it will take long.

"Will you stay?" Michael whispers.

"Yes, Michael. Unless the girls need me."

"You're a good man." His voice dips, soft and hoarse.

Jon doesn't bother arguing. "Go to sleep."

Michael tucks his face against Jon's neck. It barely takes a minute before his breaths even out.

That leaves Jon with a warm burden. He considers tucking him in and leaving, but it's quiet downstairs and he said he'd stay. Here, warm and pinned and comfortable, he can't quite bring himself to do the right thing. He does the thing that's wrong instead, and much more satisfying; he closes his eyes.

//

The first thing Michael becomes aware of when he wakes up is Jon's hands on him, keeping him close where he's holding him to him in the pink-tinted darkness of his silk shrouded room. The second is his even breaths, slightly stirring Michael's hair. He's sleeping.

Memories of last night floating back to turn his cheeks hot, Michael looks up at him, studying for a moment, his serious watchman. He's surprised to see him like this. He didn't think he'd let himself lose control. Maybe he's just that exhausted.

Maybe he's starting to become fond of Michael. Fondness doesn't seem to be a problem - guilt, maybe. God knows he's been through something no one should ever have to. Michael wonders what he was like before that happened. Married, he knows that much. But maybe he wasn't so quiet, or so serious.

Maybe he'd have been the kind of man who'd have responded to Michael's incredibly blatant provocation. Though, he considers, this is a response all of its own. Not a rejection this time.

He can't find any reason to stop watching him, so he doesn't. Even needing a haircut and his beard trimmed, he looks like a Greek god. Tentatively, Michael tucks his hand against Jon's warm flank, settling down again. He's around bodies every day, but if he could sleep every night like this, he would.

The universe must be feeling kind, because he gets another perfect couple of hours of blissful, nearly-aware dozing before Jon stirs underneath him. He keeps his arms wrapped around Michael, but swears softly under his breath. After a few moments, he takes a breath. "Michael?"

Michael tightens his grip. "Mm?" He stretches just a little.

"Are you all right? I need to go to my own room."

"You do? Why's that?"

"To sleep. I - you need your rest and so do I." At Michael's silence, he sighs. "This isn't a good habit to start."

"Why not?" Michael whispers.

"Because -" Jon falters, his breath ruffling Michael's hair. One of his hands gently comes up to smooth the flyaway strands. "I don't understand the way I feel, and I'm not ready to yet."

"You said yet," Michael points out, because he can't help it.

Jon squeezes him, some of his physical tension melting off with a soft laugh. "You're very persistent, Michael."

"You're very worth it, Jon."

He just sighs at that. Michael wants, as he's wanted for weeks now, to kiss the sound off his lips. "I suppose I've already been here half the night. What difference will a while longer make?"

"None," Michael says, satisfied. He delights in the small shifts Jon makes to stretch full length beside him. He doesn't take his arms away either; doesn't try to put a barrier between them. "Jon?"

"Mm?"

"If you minded, you wouldn't be here, right-?"

Jon hums, sounding half-asleep. "I don't mind."

"You promise?"

"I promise, Michael." And then he's asleep again, surprisingly easily.

*

When Michael finally wakes up proper, he's groggy with a hangover and resenting himself. He's also alone, which he was expecting but which still causes a twinge of regret. He hopes he hasn't upset Jon, he'd hate that. More likely, it's because it's incredibly late in the day.

Groaning at the thought, he gets up and vaguely dressed, hauling the sheets off his bed to take down to the laundry room. He'll wash them himself if he has to; maybe the steam will help clear his head.

He sets up with water and soap and starts to gently buff out any stains and marks from his various robes and shirts. Unlike most of his customers, he appreciates clean linen. And sometimes the silks are hard to clean. They make him happy, though, and so he treats them with care.

It's a fairly recent discovery, his affection for these kinds of clothes. No one in the Red Hart seems to mind though, and that suits him just fine. In fact, it's usually an enticement.

And Jon... Jon doesn't seem to mind either. Michael doesn't get the impression he's bigoted, internally or otherwise, but he seems surprised by his own susceptibility to Michael. Michael just can't quite pin down what kind of susceptibility it is. He's enjoying figuring it out though, he muses to himself, as the door to the laundry room swings open.

It's just Emily, looking slightly nervous as per usual. Michael warms at the sight of her. "Emily, how are you-?" It takes her a beat too long to look up at him, and he just knows.

"I'm just fine," she breathes, voice airy.

"Really?" Michael whispers. She looks... rough. "What did you take, Emily?" he hisses.

"Take?" She turns away. "I just remembered... I have to go."

"Don't," he entreats, reaching for her. "Please talk to me."

Her eyes hover over him, gauging his irritation probably, before she sags. "Not everyone is as strong as you, Michael." It makes him want to laugh, considering his own hangover.

"I'm not strong, Emily, tell me what you took darling." He touches her shoulders. "Where did you get it-?"

"Opium pills," she whispers, "those soldiers who were in last night brought them."

"Jesus, Emily-"

She sniffs. "And you wouldn't have?"

"Well, I didn't," he whispers. "You know why I didn't."

She huffs weakly. "Michael, I needed it-"

He sighs and pulls her in for an embrace. "I know, but look what happened last time, we can't get like that again." He squeezes her. "Emily, are you hurt? Do you need to be taken off the docket for a while?"

"And not earn? Don't be clueless," she mutters, not unkindly.

"I know," he sighs. "But I could help you, Miss Adelaide would understand..."

"Just forget it, Michael," she says. "I shouldn't have -"

"It's... Emily, it's okay. I understand..." He lets her go, though, when she wriggles. He feels helpless; wounded without being able to name the reason why. But he can't help her if she refuses help.

She leaves him, drifting aimlessly, and he watches her go with his heart aching in his chest. She's never been strong. He'd thought bringing her here under Miss Adelaide's wing would help, but he supposes it's just been a matter of time.

The thought makes him fractious and distracted while he finishes his laundry. Is he coping much better than Emily? Perhaps not. Drinking more, he knows. Fixating more. But not taking drugs at least.

Linens finally clean, he gathers them up to hang dry in the next room. His thoughts awhirl with anxiety, he barely notices Miss Adelaide appear in the doorway, arms folded, shoulder against the frame. When he does, he bites his lip and finishes pinning a sheet before turning. "Hello," he says, a shade too casual to be so.

"Michael," she says, in her faint Irish accent.

"How can I help, ma'am?"

"I'm not sure, boy."

Ah, this is one of those conversations. "Is this about Emily?"

Her lips purse. "Mostly." Michael waits, expression going remote. "Look, Michael, when you came here I told you there were things I didn't tolerate in my establishment."

"Remind me what they are?"

"Exchanging favors for drugs was one," she replies.

"Which I'm not guilty of, so let's move onto the next."

"Skimming off the top."

"Not doing that either." He crosses his arms. "Look. I'm worried about Emily, but I can't be responsible for her."

"No, you can't."

"So what's the part that's not about Emily?"

"The part about your new friend, Mister Jensen."

"You mean your new employee."

"He needs work, we need muscle. You need something else."

"Oh? And what is that?"

"To make up your mind whether he's a customer or something else, and to keep it out of the barroom."

"He's not a customer, but I take your point," Michael concedes.

Miss Adelaide tilts her head, considering. "Never seen you like this with anyone before."

"Well, we all have our weaknesses," Michael sighs.

"Yes, you more'n most."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Michael frowns.

"You know what it means. Be careful with Mister Jensen, Michael."

"Ha. If only that was a concern."

Another knowing once over. "He doesn't strike me as a fella who'd do something he didn't want to. Didn't seem to mind carrying you up to bed last night and not coming back down until today."

If only it had been like she's suggesting. "It's not like that," he mutters, "Jon's decent."

She just raises a brow. "Biblically decent, I'll bet."

"No, Miss Adelaide."

"You be careful with that man, Michael," she reiterates, gently this time.

He nods, eyes focusing on a fall of colorful silk in his hands. "Yes ma'am."

She nods and disappears as quickly as she'd appeared. Michael considers the silence left behind in annoyance. She means well, but she's definitely a busybody.

Almost to prove himself guiltless, Michael hangs the rest of his things to dry and then goes looking for Jon. He climbs the stairs and knocks on his door.

"Yes-?"

"Jon, it's me," he calls softly.

A little silence, and then Jon opens the door. "Michael."

"How are you?" Michael asks, smiling up at him hopefully.

Jon seems to weigh it, then he smiles, just softly, and steps back to let him in. "I'm all right."

"I'm glad." Michael wanders in, waiting to see where Jon goes. "What're you doing?"

"Reading," Jon holds up a familiar looking book. "I started it yesterday, I hope you don't mind."

"Oh, that's mine!" Michael hadn't noticed it was missing.

"Yes. I should have asked but - you were sleeping. I'm sorry."

"It's fine, of course you can read it, I...do you like it?"

"It's amusing. It was your mother's?"

Michael nods. "I saved a few things."

"Anything of your father's?"

"No, he wasn't - he was the barman. Mum was the educated one."

"Oh?"

"Yes, she did all the books." Michael thinks of her fondly for a moment, her bound ledger and stub of pencil. "I always hoped I'd turn out more like her, but alas."

Jon smiles back like he understands. "I always hoped I'd be like my mother too. Patient, kind."

He is, though. Does he not see that? Michael bites his lip. "Did you need your laundry turning round?"

Jon thinks it over. "No, I don't think so." He watches Michael for a moment, then he tilts his head. "Come for a walk with me."

Surprised, Michael looks down at his clothing, then back up. "All right."

He watches Jon shrug into his jacket and boots. He has to grab himself a jacket too, but then they're heading down and out. He doesn't look into the barroom for Miss Adelaide, but he knows at least one of the girls will have seen them go.

It's busy in town, but Jon seems to be following a path to a quieter stretch. He walks fast. Michael has to hurry to keep up.

"Are we going somewhere nice?" he teases.

"I found a bakery the other day," Jon says. "Run by a Swede. Not Danish but close enough."

"Are Swedish baked goods similar?"

"We will find out."

Michael smiles, surprised at the tone of faint levity in Jon's voice - almost mischievous. He seems to be in a good mood.

In the bakery, Jon orders a couple of things, and brings Michael a brown paper bag with a smile. He'd spoken to the man behind the counter in a foreign language - most likely Swedish - and Michael wants to hear more.

"Tell me what they are in Danish, please."

"This one is _Æblekage_ ," Jon tells him, "apple cake." He holds the bag out for Michael to take a piece.

"Thank you." He takes a bite and sighs. "Oh, that is good."

Jon smiles. "Yes?"

"Yes, you have some too." Michael nudges him back off the street and into a sheltered doorway and pushes the bag back towards him.

"I can eat and walk," Jon chuckles, obediently taking a bite before passing it back, putting his hands in his pockets as he chews.

"Where are we going then?" Michael's pout is somewhat thwarted by cake.

"I thought we could go down to the bay and look around."

"Sure," Michael says. He's not usually out at this time of day but the sunshine feels good. And he likes being with Jon, his gait easy for once. Sticky fingers brush against one another from time to time as they take more bites of the cake.

"I'm glad to see you," Jon says quietly.

Michael tries not to snort. "I'm always here, Jon."

"I... yes," his voice goes - not curt but firm, _don't make fun of me_ , "well, I'm glad."

 _He likes you_ , Michael tells himself, the thought giving him an unsettling swooping feeling in his chest. He pauses in his walking to look at him, and Jon stalls too.

"Me too, Jon," Michael tells him softly. They exchange another uncertain smile, then carry on.

As they get into the military section of town, the streets clear a bit, action centering around the barracks and port. Jon doesn't baby Michael but he stays close, hair glowing white gold in the sun.

Others seem to be taking advantage of the same fair weather. Everything is so calm. It is good to get out of the Hart, he thinks, wondering how Jon knew.

"Sometimes when I feel trapped, I have to prove to myself I'm not," Jon murmurs, as if he's thinking something similar.

Michael nods. "You're not. You're not alone either."

"No. Not at the moment."

"As long as I'm around you don't have to be, all right?" Michael mumbles.

The look Jon gives him is uncommonly vulnerable. Michael bites his lip against the sudden urge to take liberties.

"I'm here for you too, y'know," Jon whispers.

Michael knows. He nods mutely, eyes scouring Jon's face. They exchange uneasy smiles.

Near the point, they find a stone wall to sit on. It's quiet, overlooking a long expanse of sandy earth and a few stunted trees. They open the cake bag again, eating silently. It feels pretty special, Michael muses, even something as ordinary as this. No expectations and no pretences. He'd never have guessed that would be so important to him. He'd never have thought he'd need - whatever this is. This quiet understanding. The hesitant truce of their fondness amidst a whole barrage of other wounds they're healing from.

He's going to ruin it, he suspects, by wanting more. That's what Miss Adelaide was trying to warn him about. He doesn't want to. Doesn't want to lose it.

He can feel Jon's arm pressing against his as they sit, and he leans into it. Jon just sighs again softly. He watches gulls swoop over the bay. Michael watches him, imagines watching him ride over a high plains prairie instead. It'd be soothing watching him do anything, he thinks.

Watching him might be the opposite of soothing too, he thinks, in certain situations. He really ought to rein it in, for that reason.

"Miss Adelaide says I should be careful with you," he says, crisply.

"Does she," he replies, not really a question.

"She does."

"Do you plan on it?" Jon asks.

"Being careful with you? Certainly."

Jon eats another piece of cake. "What does that entail?"

"Taking what I'm given? Not asking for more?"

Jon looks down at his boots for a moment. "You can ask for more. I just can't promise I'll always be able to give it."

Michael leans his head briefly against Jon's shoulder. "Is there anything _you_ want to ask for?"

"Yes," Jon says quietly. "Just...not right now."

"All right," Michael nods. The curiosity pricks him like a splinter. It must show, because Jon huffs a laugh after a moment.

"Not right now," he repeats softly. Michael nods again, and startles briefly when Jon takes his hand and squeezes. "I've never felt like this before."

The words enter his ears as smoothly as a snake, squeezing tender things inside. "Bad?"

"Just new. Feel guilty about it," Jon admits softly.

"All right," Michael soothes breathlessly. He sees Jon's jaw set, and wonders if he's trying not to get emotional. "I'm sorry, Jon..."

"No, please don't be." He takes a shaky breath.

Michael squeezes their joined hands. After a quick look around, he bends and kisses his knuckles gently. "Thanks for talking to me about it."

"Thanks for listening."

He thinks Jon looks a little... shy, maybe. It looks devastatingly charming. It's a real shame he's not interested in sampling what Michael has to offer - at least not yet. Michael has hope.

"It'd be different, y'know," he whispers, "if that's what you're worried about. Customers and things."

"I wasn't, I mean - if that's what you wanted -" Jon flushes.

"If you wanted to, then - definitely." He ducks his head, and Michael can't help but lean into him. "It wouldn't be business," he breathes.

Jon sighs and bumps him so Michael wobbles. "I got it." He picks up the paper bag, then. "Should we head back?"

"Maybe." Michael feels reluctant to say it.

"Need anything from the shops?" Jon asks softly.

Michael doesn't, but he'd gladly pretend to stretch out this moment. "Maybe some more soap," he muses.

"All right." Jon adjusts his belt as he stands. Michael watches a bit more closely than he really ought to. Jon catches his gaze, and gives him a nudge. "Eyes forward."

Michael blushes, unbelievably. "Yes sir." He obeys, feeling a frisson through his limbs.

Jon's presence beside him is so soothing. They stop by the market for soap and Jon picks up a few things as well, getting caught up looking at a stall of flowers.

"Which ones do you like the best?" Michael murmurs.

"Hm? Oh. Just thinking about where they came from."

"From the country, of course," Michael murmurs. "It's not so very far."

"No, suppose not."

"Which are your favorites?" Michael repeats.

"The tulips," Jon shrugs.

"Red ones," Michael murmurs. He doesn't have enough money for flowers, at least not today, but he wishes he did.

Jon smiles. "I should have bought some of that soap that you bought," he says after a moment. "The scent is lovely."

"Well, you can have some. You like the way it smells?" he adds teasingly.

"Obviously."

"I'll bring you a bath in your room anytime you want," Michael tells him. "Complete with soap."

Another heavy silence. Finally, Jon nods. "Okay."

Michael bites his lip so he won't smile too wide. "Okay?"

"Sounds good."

"I'll make sure it is," Michael murmurs.

Jon bites his lip, then ticks his head to indicate he's ready to go. "C'mon."

Michael nods and scurries to follow his long strides. "Are we heading back?"

"For now. We can walk again soon," Jon promises.

"I'd like that," Michael says, probably needlessly. He says it anyway, for the pleasure it gives him.

Jon flashes him a smile that says Jon feels the same. They walk in comfortable quiet. It's good to know this is only the first of such trips. It feels good to have broken some ground with him. He can be so, so patient, he promises himself. It's a promise to Jon too.

*

Michael lets Jon retreat back to his room after they get in, feeling slightly enervated about their conversation as well as his earlier talk with Miss Adelaide. He takes a bath; gets ready for the night ahead, hangover having lifted considerably. One of the girls brings his dry laundry upstairs in enough time for him to pick a fresh robe from his little collection. He goes with red tonight. He won't admit to himself that it's not exactly for customers, this one.

He can pretend while he has to.

He goes down to the smoke swirled bar, casting his gaze around for a likely looking candidate. He allows himself to pause and pose in the doorway. A few glances, some interested and some _very_. He sees Jon at the bar; the way he clocks Michael and stops whatever quiet conversation he was having with Miss Adelaide.

He'll hear about that later, he supposes. For now though, he's only interested in the way Jon watches him. He, Michael reflects, is one of the very interested ones. He casts around for another with some measure of regret.

One of his regulars is in, already pink-faced with booze. Michael makes his way over to see if he's looking for anything more than a drink tonight, forming his expression into something welcoming. It's easy to do, it always has been. He gets his answer when Mister S signals Adelaide to bring a second glass of whiskey.

Maybe not. He diverts. As he backs up, a hand finds his waist and he glances over his shoulder.

"Matthew," he greets, unsurprised. Not too much of a challenge, this one, no complicated needs. Just an unfortunate tendency to be handsy. Before he's paid, and all. Michael smiles down at him. "Can I do something for you this evening?"

"Y'know," Matthew says, swiping a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other in one smooth motion, "I think you can."

Michael sits down at his table, letting his robe gape open a bit as he leans forward. "Tell me."

And he does. Michael leads him upstairs by the hand when they've exchanged coin, hazarding a glance back over his shoulder. Jon is still watching.

*

Michael couldn't read his expression, but he's still thinking about it later as he slips into his room and out of his robe. He goes over to his washbasin to freshen up, sipping a small glass of his whiskey. He'd sent Matthew on his way satisfied, but he needs a few moments to himself before he goes back down there. A few moments to clean up and clear his head. Matthew always buys more than the basics, and tips well, but he isn't done for the night. And in the back of his mind, he's noticed Emily's absence from the fray.

When he goes back down, he checks to make sure Miss Adelaide is occupied and then goes over to Jon, leaning close to whisper in his ear. He feels the forced tense-then-relax of a man who has been surprised in bad ways before, but then his eyes are on Michael.

"Everything is alright?" he murmurs.

"Yeah," Michael breathes, "it's okay."

"Good."

"Just, can you -" Michael breathes in, "could you check on Emily in a little while if she doesn't come down?"

"In a little while, or now?"

"Now," Michael amends softly. "Thank you. Don't - don't tell her I sent you."

"All right." Jon gets up quickly. He lifts his hand, almost as if he's about to cup Michael's cheek, but the touch never lands. He smoothes his hair out of his face instead.

Then he's gone, and Michael is missing him. He scans the bar again, falling automatically into an enticing posture. He's not ready to go though, not until Jon comes back. He's not sure when that became the case. He does allow a man at the bar to buy him a drink. It only helps slightly.

It does get him feeling warm enough to sway along with the music the piano player is tinkling out in the corner. Warm enough to flirt into conversation with another possible taker. Older, this one. Dark hair with a dash of silver at the temples. Michael isn't sure, but he thinks he sees cruelty tucked into the corner of his smile. He's not sure if he cares. Coin is coin. And he knows how to do his job.

He lingers until there's the steel of impatience in his face, and then goes. On the stairs, he's relieved to see Jon coming down. Their eyes catch again for a brief moment.

"Okay," Jon mouths.

Michael nods tightly. It helps him relax only slightly. New customers are always - a cause for apprehension.

He thinks he can still feel Jon watching from the bottom of the stairs like maybe he feels the same. A small pit of yearning lives in his stomach, and he hopes whatever this man wants will - scratch the itch, at least a little. Just until Jon is ready for more. It's all he can think about.

*

He was right about the dark-haired man, Michael muses later. He hadn't been much rougher than most of Michael's other clients, but it had been borne of enjoyment rather than lack of skill. He can feel the indents left by fingernails in his hips, and he touches over them hesitantly before he washes himself again and pulls back on his robe.

It's getting late. He wants a drink now. The bar will be closing up. Maybe it will be quiet.

He slinks downstairs, wearier than he first thought. He's just in time to see Jon depositing someone outside the front door. Rather gently, all in all. Must have just been a drunk.

"Miss Adelaide," he props himself on the bar, "could I trouble you for a drink?"

"Glass or bottle?" she asks, looking him over discreetly.

"Glass," he murmurs, "no, bottle."

"Taking it upstairs?"

"Yes please."

She hands over a bottle of his usual, and he hands over her cut of his coin, then turns. "Michael," she adds softly, "Jon and I put Emily to bed. Thanks for keeping an eye on her."

Michael bites his lips. "Of course. I'll check on her in the morning." He scans the room.

"He's upstairs," Miss Adelaide fills in dryly.

Crept up the stairs while Michael was in the bar. Typical. "Goodnight," he tells Miss Adelaide pointedly and heads up with his bottle.

He's surprised, then, to find Jon waiting outside his room, hands in his pockets. He looks uncertain, almost shy.

"Jon," Michael murmurs. "Did you need something?"

"I came to ask you something - about your friend. And to check on you..."

"Worried about me?" Michael taunts gently. Then he relents. "Come in."

Jon's expression is laced with tension at that, and he fidgets slightly. "I can come back tomorrow if you're tired."

"I'm not done drinking yet. You might as well join me."

That doesn't seem to comfort Jon, possibly because he's bemused by Michael's sudden acidity. It's not his fault, really; his disappearance followed by Miss Adelaide's commentary had just wound Michael up a bit. He pours them both a drink. After he hands Jon his glass, he tugs him gently toward the edge of the bed.

"Michael-" Jon touches his shoulder. "I wanted to check you were all right..."

"Do I - not seem all right?" Michael tilts his head.

"You seem angry."

"Not at you."

"But maybe I can help?"

"You are helping."

Jon nods, looking dubious.

"Tell me about Emily," he urges.

"She wasn't in great shape. It was like she'd taken something."

"She had, I'm sure."

"Got her some water, and made sure she was propped up." Jon shrugged. "I saw her talking to someone, looked in a bad way."

Michael shakes his head. "Thanks." He flops himself down on his bed with a sigh. Jon cradles his glass protectively, half-smiling. "Sit down," Michael mutters.

Jon sits without argument, and Michael lets his body make a comma around him. Jon's hand settles gently on his shoulder. "Your last customer..."

"What about him?" Michael sips his drink, carefully because of his angle of repose.

Jon touches at faint pink marks on his wrists, questioningly.

"It's not unusual," Michael tells him. "Most men who fuck boys like me like the feeling of power."

"You don't mind-?"

"It's not really - about what I want, usually."

"I understand but." He makes himself stop. "Just make sure you're taking care of yourself, or letting me."

Michael pushes himself up so he can look at Jon. "If I let you take care of me, it starts to... mean things, Jon."

"It's what I'm here for now," Jon points out softly.

Oh. He didn't know that.

Jon pauses, maybe at his expression, and he adds softly, "It does mean something to me."

Michael reaches behind him blindly and sets his glass on the bedside table. "Yeah?" He leans close again.

Jon nods, leaning forward slowly to set his glass with Michael's. Shelving his self-restraint, Michael snags gently at the front of Jon's shirt to keep him close.

"Show me," he murmurs.

Jon cups his arms gently. "I want to..."

"Please," Michael whispers. He tips his chin up, and sighs softly when Jon bends to kiss him.

Jon kisses him like he's always been kissing him, since the beginning of the world, or before. It's so gentle, sweet and thorough. Not a moment of hesitation. Michael never wants him to stop.

He gasps in delight and Jon merely licks gently into his mouth. The tenderness is enthralling. He didn't know anyone could be like this. Not someone like Jon, who's seen so much _horror_. Instead he just sits there, and takes Michael to pieces with his mouth and two gentle hands holding him near.

When he eases back, Michael holds on, getting a glimpse of him so close, blond lashes and brows, before he presses in again. Urgency is banked by comfort, and he doesn't feel _need_ so much as yearning. Gut-deep yearning, to take over Jon's senses as completely as his own have been.

Eventually though, Jon pulls back, squeezing him again gently. "Have you eaten since earlier?"

Michael shakes his head, still reeling a little.

"You should eat," Jon mutters, "I'll come back. Let me go get you something."

"Bring some for yourself too," Michael whispers.

Jon pauses, and then his hand slides up to gently pass his fingers through Michael's curls. It's so starkly, strikingly kind that Michael's eyes sting - more than desire, once again. "I won't be long."

Michael nods. He curls up on his bed again when Jon is gone. He's in uncharted waters. Without Jon, he's rudderless here. Waiting. It's an alien and alarming feeling. He was never prepared for this.

Jon returns, with a soft knock on the door before he enters. He's carrying a plate with the remnants of whatever Miss Adelaide cooked earlier, a jug balanced over his wrist. "We'll have to share," he murmurs.

"Works for me."

They sit back on the bed together, pulling the little table close by. Jon tears open a bread roll and hands half to Michael, passing him a knife for butter. Michael butters it and bites in, picking up a piece of ham in his other hand.

They're comfortably quiet while they eat. Their fingers bump occasionally, but that is the extent of the contact. When Jon is apparently satisfied Michael is sufficiently fed and watered, he takes their plate back downstairs. This time, Michael paces.

He's still at it when Jon returns, and his expression goes questioning. "Michael?"

"I don't know what you've done to me," he murmurs, pausing.

Jon's expression shifts, clearly anxious. "What?"

"I didn't need anyone until you showed up," Michael says, striding to his side and touching his chest again.

"You still don't need me," Jon murmurs.

"I do," Michael says. "I feel as if it actually...hurts when you leave."

"Michael..." Jon touches his shoulders.

This time, Michael kisses him. It's frustrating to feel Jon's delicacy, his hands steadfastly chaste on him. He pulls back. "Did you do that for me, or for yourself," he gasps out.

"I held back for myself," Jon says, honestly.

"That's fair," Michael sighs.

Jon sighs and touches his hair again. "Am I being cruel by being here-?"

"No," Michael shakes his head vehemently. "I want you here."

"What do you want?" Jon asks.

"I want you to have a drink with me, and then I want you to come to bed with me, like you did last night."

He seems to consider, and then deem that an acceptable - even desirable - request. "Very well."

The tension leaches out of Michael's spine. He picks up his glass, and hands Jon the other. "Cheers."

They click them together, and drink, and then sit down on the bed once more. Michael notices Jon examining the books on his bedside once more. "I still have your book."

"You'll have to read me another then," Michael decides.

"Pick one, and I will," Jon murmurs.

Michael does, and then hands it to him. Jon props himself in the corner between the headboard and the wall. Michael curls with his head on his chest. It's easy, so easy to curl into him.

One of Jon's arms curves around his back and he turns pages with the free hand. He starts to read, voice soft and even. The sound of it is infinitely soothing, as is the feel of it against Michael's cheek. Eventually, he takes another drink, and lets himself curl onto his other side and tuck his face into Jon's chest. He tugs a blanket up and twines their feet together.

Jon pauses, letting him settle, and the continues reading, the words occasionally misshapen by his accent, but always easily delivered. Michael is lulled by every phrase. Eventually, Jon's arms and voice never relenting, he falls asleep. At some point during the night, Jon sets the book on the floor and takes him fully into his arms.

//

Jon can't bring himself to sleep for a long time, too preoccupied with feeling Michael's trusting stillness against his body. With his own enjoyment of it. He hasn't felt like this... since he was young. A teenager, falling into kisses with his childhood friend after an enthusiastic chase through the trees back home, painfully breathless and laughing themselves raw. No sense of transgression, only of enjoyment, of togetherness.

And then they'd grown up, and Jon had met the woman he thought he'd grow old with, only a girl herself then. He'd forgotten the thrill of it. He'd forgotten feeling the unique understanding. The tangle of bodies, of sweet young sweat. But Jon isn't young anymore, and Michael is painfully so. And the way he looks at Jon, like Jon is all he wants....

It hurts. It feels like a weight that landed without warning. Not unkind. Just unexpected, unprepared for. A winding blow to his diaphragm.

He's not sure why this has come to him now, after so much death and heartbreak. It can't be a gift or a balm. He doesn't deserve it. He'd think it a temptation if he still believed in god.

He looks down at Michael again, face peachy with the dawn against the curtain, wreathing him in haloed light. His lips, slightly parted, remind Jon of his kisses. His heart thumps again painfully in his chest. He wants to taste them again. But he doesn't want to disturb him. He contents himself with watching him a while longer, until his eyes are unbearably tired.

Sunrise sees him finally drifting off. He feels afraid to miss out on Michael's waking though; stirs often. It doesn't immediately occur to him that he might be able to see it again, in fact, multiple times. Not until he's stirred by Michael's soft cheek against his, cautiously seeking.

Jon dips his own head. Michael kisses him soft and chaste. Neither of them presses for an advantage, even as they stay twined together.

Michael is smiling when he pulls back. "Good morning, Jon."

"Morning."

"It's too early to get up," Michael tells him.

"Is it now."

"Yes," Michael lays his head on Jon's shoulder again.

"All right." If only Michael knew how impossible he is to say no to.

He beams softly, like he knows. Jon runs his fingers slowly through shoulder-length curls. He feels guilty for taking comfort in him, both for his sake and for that of his family. He isn't this man. Is he? Can he be the same person he thought he was before? How much change can he take? He strokes Michael's hair again with a soft sigh. This much, at least.

"This is nice," Michael whispers softly.

"Yes," he murmurs back. He accepts another tentative kiss.

Michael's hand rests on his chest, gently pressing against his shirtfront. "Thanks for last night."

"It was my pleasure, Michael." He can barely raise his voice above a whisper, he's so breathless.

It gets him another pretty smile. He's so lost in this. This time when Michael presses in to kiss him again, he struggles to think of a reason to stop.

There is none - no one needs them for hours, they're all alone, they both...want this. He sighs, cupping his nape, kissing Michael's forehead. "What shall we do today?"

"This isn't an option?" Michael mumbles.

"For a while."

"Can we...read more of my book?"

"Yes," Jon doesn't hesitate.

"After some breakfast? I'll go get it," Michael offers.

"Sure," he says simply. He's feeling very amenable. The thought of Michael tiptoeing through the house in his silk robe is - enticing. And that in itself is surprising enough to pursue. He feels some sort of change in himself, deep down like a crack in the earth. It makes him wrap Michael up tighter in his arms for a minute.

Michael simply melts into it. "Jon," he sighs.

"I'll be here."

"All right." He pulls away, tying his robe tight as he heads to the door, hair disheveled. Jon knows how it looks. He doesn't mind. He's not even surprised that he doesn't mind. It's safe enough here, he thinks. He wants it to be safe here.

Warmth lulls him while he awaits Michael's return, making his eyes heavy again. He allows himself to doze. It's not long before he's awoken by the dip in the thin mattress.

"Wake up," Michael hums. "Your feast awaits." Sounds a lot like a dare in his silky voice. Jon doesn't quite know what to do about that.

Sitting up to sleepily await his next instruction seems sensible. It earns him Michael, sliding into his lap. He can't help but admire his hedging nature, nor the smooth, tanned plain of his chest where his robe gapes. The plate sits by his hip, and he reaches for a bunch of grapes.

"Open wide."

"Michael," Jon protests, albeit weakly.

 He just sits and waits. When his patience outstrips Jon's, even only in the short run, he smiles as Jon opens his mouth tentatively. Slim fingers slip the grape in between his lips. "Want another?"

"Yes, please." Michael obliges him, and Jon can't take his eyes off him. "Has everything you do always been a seduction, or is it a habit you've developed?"

The question clearly gives Michael pause. He seems to register the double meaning though, because he eats the next one himself without too much lash-batting.

"Suppose I've always had to while I've been an adult."

"You don't have to with me," Jon says, hoping his meaning comes across correctly.

"Guess I was hoping you'd like it."

"I don't dislike it. But it's not necessary."

"What if I want to?"

"Then that's fine." He means it. He hopes he knows.

It certainly doesn't stop him from sitting right where he's made himself at home. He gives Jon another indulgent smile; eats some cheese with an entirely unnecessary flourish. It doesn't stop him from feeding Jon a piece, either.

"Because I want to," he assures.

Jon thinks nothing else could taste as sweet. "All right, Michael."

It gets him a bite of toast for his trouble. Then a kiss that takes him by surprise. It sparks something he's not expecting. He touches his waist tentatively and Michael meets his eyes.

"I like that too," he whispers.

"I thought you might," Michael whispers back.

Jon sighs. He's irresistible. He picks up another grape and raises it to Michael's lips himself. He hopes the faint prickle of anxiety doesn't show as a tremble in his hands. Michael's face is nearly all he can comprehend. And when he takes Jon's hand between his own and gently sucks at the tip of his thumb, his vision narrows yet further.

Michael's mouth is like a jewel. The jerk in Jon's stomach isn't entirely from nerves. His chest feels tight.

"Michael," he whispers softly.

Michael releases his thumb. The dip of his head into another kiss is a graceful and dance-like thing. Something spikes inside Jon with each movement. He grips him tighter, a shuddering breath escaping him. Michael echoes it, wriggling even closer. His hands slip into Jon's hair smooth as anything. It's more heat but no less grace. Jon feels speared with tenderness.

He touches Michael's waist, gently as he can. It's a lot. Nearly too much. If only he wasn't so desperate for it to continue. Even so, he eases back with a sigh.

"This isn't the right time," Michael guesses.

"I don't know what the right time is," Jon admits.

"Will you trust me to find it? Or would you prefer I just - let you?"

"Michael." He tries to say it gently. The boy draws back but Jon holds him fast. "This isn't enough?"

"I didn't say that."

"I know you didn't. I'm asking, Michael."

"If it's all you have, it's enough."

Jon leans their foreheads together. He has to close his eyes when Michael takes his face gently in his hands. Jon doesn't have the answer. "I'm sorry."

"I just want to have you here," Michael tells him, small hands searching down over his chest.

"I am here. And I want to stay."

"Then stay. Give up your room, bring your things upstairs. No expectations."

Bright, hot fear again. "Michael, I can't..." He watches his face fall. "Michael..." how can he ask that.

"Don't tell me it's cruel, Jon."

"You don't think it's cruel to ask me that?"

"You said you want to stay! So stay."

"I don't know if I can."

Michael pushes himself off of Jon's lap. "That is what's cruel," he whispers.

It feels like a slap to the face. Jon heaves a slow breath, and stands. "I don't want that."

Michael won't look at him, only at his own hands, clenched in his lap.

"Michael, what you're asking is too much now, it's too soon," Jon says, gently, "I told you I'd say no if it was. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry about everything, aren't you," Michael hisses.

The guilt Jon felt is receding slightly in the face of Michael's spite. He starts to pull on his boots by the door; his waistcoat. "I'm sorry to have misunderstood you."

Michael still won't look up, shoulders curved tight under silk. "You didn't misunderstand, you just found a new way to reject me. Bravo, Mister Jensen."

"Michael." His voice goes plaintive now without his permission. " _I lost my family_."

It propels Michael to his feet, but only to retreat to the window, as far from the door as he can get. "And I'm _sorry_ that you did, Jon, I'm so sorry. But I have - nothing else I can give you but this. But me."

That hurts, to watch him so visibly pained. "And that's enough, you're more than I deserve, but right now I don't have anything else to give in return right now, and it needs to be - you deserve my presence, and not just my passive permission."

"I was asking for your presence," Michael points out. "And you said no. So I guess you really ought to leave."

Jon pauses, and then nods. "Yes, all right." He picks up his jacket last, crumpling it in his hand. "As you wish."

The door closes too quietly behind him for the gravity of the situation. He stands for a moment in the hall, but there's only silence within.

He goes out, unsure of what else to do. He has to remove himself, to keep Michael from having to see him for a while. He finds a cafe with hot, black coffee and bacon rolls. The antithesis of their interrupted breakfast. He barely tastes it. At least they let him sit and stare out at the street.

He can't stop cycling through the memories of the morning, trapped in the sunbeams as if crystallized. Michael, jewel-bright, giving him all the most enchanting parts of himself; finding the sharp edges of each one. Jon is tired of being cut on its edges for now. He's trying not to cast blame. They both just need to breathe. Even if Michael wants them to breathe the same air.

He closes his eyes at the thought. He wants that too, but he needs time to come to terms with it. His sense of time feels broken. Everything is so fresh, yet so remote. And Michael has been a torrent of cool, clean water, pushing him too fast but rinsing away the blood.

It's more dizziness than anything. He's too much wild for Jon to contain right now. He drops his head into his hand.

"Please, let me do the right thing."

It would help if he knew what that was. He'll find it, he hopes. For now, he needs to keep his distance. As much as possible. Just do what Miss Adelaide pays him to do. And that's what he does, when he finally returns.

*

Jon keeps out of Michael's room - and out of his way - over the coming days. Michael seems to be going out of his way to make it easy. Jon has never felt simultaneity in sadness and relief before.

No one else has commented on the situation yet. He's noticed Miss Adelaide watching though, like she often is. She'd warned him to take care. She'd warned Michael too, apparently. Smart woman, that one.

Jon shakes his head about it now as he lifts a heavy barrel up the stairs for her, the bar closed for the night and all the drunks thrown out or bedded down. "Thanks," she says. "Could you take the empty one out to the alley?"

"Sure." He hauls it. He props the door open first to make it a bit easier on himself, frowning when he sees movement down at the mouth of the alley. The flutter of silk. He stills, peering out into the dark. Michael doesn't conduct business outdoors.

He sets the barrel aside by the back door quietly and closes it. It hadn't been locked either, he realizes. He makes his way a few more steps into the darkness, listening. Michael's voice carries on the faint wind.

"I just want you to give her a little more time, is all. This is all I've got but I can give you more." Then he makes a soft noise like he's been taken by surprise. Jon clenches his fists but stays still.

"You'd better. This isn't nearly enough," the other voice growls.

"Well it's not my debt," Michael says, silkily.

"It is now."

"And I'll pay it, but I need time, and _politeness_."

Just a laugh. Jon clenches his fists again. He hears a distinct thump; a muffled cry, and he snaps into motion. His approach is silent enough that the next noise he hears is the wheeze of breath as the stranger hits the wall behind him.

"Jon-!" Michael's hands on him. "No, let him go-" Jon just snarls, hand tightening around the man's throat. "Jon, you'll make it _worse_ ," Michael hisses. Slim arms close around his chest and pull.

Jon squeezes tighter a moment, then finally lets go. Michael doesn't let go of him until the man disappears around the corner.

"You should have let me," Jon hisses.

"It's not the Hart's business, it's mine."

"He hit you," Jon touches his cheek before he can stop himself; gives him no room for disagreement when he tugs him toward the kitchen. "Come let me look in the light."

Michael doesn't really resist, but he's definitely frowning when they get there. There's an angry cut under his eye where the socket sits. Jon takes the bandana off his belt and wets it, wiping away the blood carefully.

"This may not be the Hart's business, but I still don't want to see you hurt."

Michael's jaw is set defiantly, though his eyes are bright with the sting of the pain. "So you say."

"I mean it, Michael. Can you tell me what's going on?"

"No. It's none of your business." He eyes Jon sourly. "You made that clear enough."

"That isn't true," Jon tells him, "and you know it."

"Isn't it? Well then I'm just telling you. Stay out of it."

Heart clenching, Jon considers heeding; leaving Michael alone in the kitchen. He can't, though. It's not in him. "Let me at least get a little ice, I think there's some left."

"I don't need ice. What, you think I haven't been hit harder than this?"

Not acknowledging his frustration, Jon just ignores him and moves to scrape together the last few melting shards from the delivery this morning, bundling them in the bandana and tying it off. Despite his curled lip, Michael hasn't left, and he flinches only slightly when Jon presses it gently to his cheek.

"Bigger hurts don't mean small ones require less care," Jon reminds him.

"Do you listen to your own advice?" Michael grumbles.

"Never." He shakes his head at the bruising; rising swelling. "Michael, this is going to be a mess."

Michael sighs. "Guess they haven't learned not to mark up the merchandise."

Jon considers; decides not to push: he can wait. He's still boiling with anger, but he forces himself to walk away with a brief, "take care."

Behind him, Michael's voice. "Wait-" He stops; back still turned. "That's it?" Michael whispers. "You're done with me now?"

Jon stifles a sigh. "Would you like me to walk you upstairs, Michael?"

His face creases in contempt. Still not forgiven, then. Or not responding correctly. He can barely trust himself to respond at all. Not with his blood up like this.

"Let me take you upstairs," he repeats, softer. He checks the lock on the kitchen door first, then touches Michael's elbow.

He lets himself be quietly led. Jon stays quiet too; clearly they're no more capable of polite conversation than they were a few days past. Upstairs, he opens Michael's door for him with a thin smile.

"Keep that cloth on your face, please. It will help."

"Thanks," he says, with barely concealed irritation. Jon feels a stab of sadness. There's a stifling silence, and then Michael turns back to him, still lingering in the doorway. "Wish you'd come in," he says, suddenly vulnerable again.

"Do you think that's wise?" Jon whispers.

It makes Michael pause and swallow heavily. "I just - miss you."

Jon misses him too. He drops his head. "I didn't mean to hurt you. It was the opposite of that."

Michael sighs. " _Please_ come in."

He only hesitates a moment before he does. He finds the relative safety of a chair. Michael crosses to the bed and sits down. Jon watches him for a moment then asks, "Drink?"

"Sure, I'll-" he stands.

"No, I'll get it." Jon waves him back down.

Michael sighs and clutches his ice to his head. Jon busies himself with pouring, noting that the bottle is low.

"You're sure you won't tell me what's going on?"

"I'm handling it my way."

Jon nods, handing him a drink. "Just tell me if that doesn't work out, yes?"

"Sure, Jon." Michael takes the glass with his eyes closed. When he pats the mattress, Jon sits down beside him with a sigh.

"Michael, you look tired," he murmurs.

"I am tired."

"Sleep instead of drink, then."

Michael's gaze is baleful instead of scathing, for once. He doesn't curl his lip now when Jon brushes his hair back from his cheek with a gentle finger. "Can we talk about the other day?" Michael whispers.

"Will you sleep if we do?"

"Yes, for goodness' sake."

"Then let's talk." Jon still takes a big sip of his drink.

It still takes a long moment for Michael to start talking, but then he sighs and nudges his shoulder into Jon's. "I'm not used to people not wanting me..."

"I imagine you're not."

Michael bites his lip. "I shouldn't have - been like that."

"Cruel?" Jon murmurs.

"I was, wasn't I-?"

"I seem to remember we both were."

"You were just honest," Michael shrugs softly, "and I couldn't handle it."

"This is...why I didn't want to get close to anyone," Jon murmurs. When Michael's expression goes hurt, he rushes to add, "Not - just... I didn't want to have to ask for time...It's not fair to you," he adds in a whisper.

Michael fidgets; takes a sip of his drink. "I don't want to stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop us."

There is - a them. Jon can't bring himself to deny that. He reaches out and strokes his hair gently. "I know, Michael."

"Do you?"

"Do I - want to stop?"

Michael nods. Jon closes his eyes. "No, Michael, I don't. Trying is making me miserable."

He sees the relief wash over his face. Jon has to touch it. "Can you stay?" Michael asks softly.

It's really all he wants. "You're sure?"

"Yes, Jon. Jesus."

"All right," he nods. He takes another swig of his whiskey.

"Go on then."

Silently, he and Michael start to get ready for bed. Jon removes his boots, jacket, vest. Michael reaches for the belt of his robe and Jon holds his breath. He's beautiful just in his shorts, even with a blossoming black eye. He's made of soft curves and muscle under young, pale skin. Jon's mouth is dry as they step together, Michael's hands coming up to his shirt buttons. He watches the hands and not Michael's face.

"Good?" Michael checks. Jon nods silently, trying to calm his suddenly racing pulse. Intimacy was their stumbling block before. "It's okay," Michael tells him, "no pressure."

"I trust you, Michael."

He nods, pushing the shirt gently off his shoulders and starting on his britches. Jon feels a bit like a child. It's not entirely unwelcome. He has realized that they are both more content if he allows Michael to care for him.

Down to their unders, they climb into bed, Jon trying to suppress his smile at being close again; warm. He opens his arms and Michael curls up against him. A big sigh of content bursts out against Jon's chest, finally forcing the smile to full beam.

"Go to sleep, Michael," he murmurs, knowing he'll hear it.

"Stop talking to me then," he teases.

"Sleep," Jon repeats fondly. Michael kisses his chest. "That's not sleeping."

"M'savouring."

"Oh?"

"Never had you this close before."

"You have," Jon murmurs.

"No, not like this."

Jon sighs softly. He knows what Michael is saying. "Sleep," he insists.

This time, Michael just tucks his face in and breathes. In the warm dark of his affections again, Jon finally relaxes.

*

The next afternoon, Jon is sprawled on Michael's bed reading aloud while Michael carefully mends a tear in a linen shirt. They slept late again, and Michael is in good spirits despite the bruise over his cheek and eye. A soft knock on the door interrupts the flow of Jon's words.

"Come in?" Michael raises his head.

One of the older girls slips in - Carmen, Jon thinks - carrying a wooden box. "For your eye," she tells him meaningfully - Michael had been down earlier for breakfast, he must have told her what happened.

"Thanks, mi amor," he grins, pulling two chairs close together. "Jon? Drinks all around?"

"It's barely sundown," Jon points out.

"Your point?"

"Maybe you should eat before you drink."

"Spoilsport."

"Just a suggestion."

Carmen laughs too. "Just pour, Mr. J."

He sighs and does as he's told, though doesn't take one himself: being drunk when he's meant to be working later isn't a good call. Michael eyes him, amused, and sits opposite Carmen, who empties her box of little pots of paint and soft cloth bundles.

"Didn't realize you had an advisor as well as a new gentleman friend, Michael," Carmen teases as she uses a little brush to start painting out the bruising around his eye.

Michael shoots Jon a look, but he stays silent. "He's just protective," Michael says.

"Not a criticism," Carmen says mildly, blending a little with her fingers, "you know this is gonna look a little obvious unless I do your whole face."

"Then do my whole face." Michael shrugs.

"All right." She grabs a little sponge from the kit. "It's unfair how pretty you are, you know," she teases. Jon silently agrees. With the makeup on, he looks flawless and made of porcelain. He grits his teeth, thinking about the man that hit him. He needs to persuade Michael to tell him who it was.

Michael, who's joking with Carmen, the flush on his chest a sure sign of the alcohol in his body even if his skin is painted ivory smooth. He closes his eyes as Carmen paints on smoky shadow. They're still chattering, but Jon has mostly stopped listening, caught by the mingled emotions of hearing himself identified as Michael's lover.

Is that what he is? Are they lovers if they've barely touched? He finds himself less wary of the title than of the touches. And even that wariness is more born of decency than reluctance. He's not sure if it's a decency that actually matters, or in his own head.

Abruptly and fiercely, he misses his wife. Sweet, and dedicated, and brave. She'd know what to do. What was in his heart. Would she forgive him? She'd known who he was, at his core. He's sure of it, even as it had never been necessary to discuss. The thought is enough to make him sigh, and Michael catches his gaze.

Jon shakes his head before Michael can fuss. He's nearly finished now, eyes dark and sooty, cheeks subtly rouged. Carmen is setting the paint with powder, teasingly entreating Michael not to smear it.

"I'll do my best," he snickers, "not sure about my customers."

"Not then I'm worried about," she hums, cutting sparkling eyes at Jon. His ears turn hot despite his best efforts, but he doesn't say anything.

"He'll be a gentleman," Michael puts in, "he always is."

She sniffs. "No fun."

"He's other things."

She starts repacking the wooden box, and Jon tries to give her a smile. She's pretty and lively and surely means well. "He's handsome, and quiet. That's plenty enough for me," she teases. Jon smiles again, not sure what to say but feeling his face get warm.

"And spoken for." Michael says it lightly, but swallows the last of his whiskey and shepherds her towards the door. He's still smiling despite, and he thanks Carmen warmly outside before he comes back in.

Regarding him, Jon tilts his head. "Spoken for, mm?"

"You do always have a lot to say for yourself, at least," Michael corrects flippantly. "How do I look?"

Jon considers, and then shrugs. "Beautiful, but not yourself."

Michael hums at him, moving behind the screen in the corner of his room. Jon has never had such a fraught relationship with a piece of furniture before.

"Is that a bad thing?" He hears Michael ask.

"Nothing about you is bad."

"That's reassuring." It sounds dry. Jon pushes himself up to a more respectable sitting position.

"I mean it," he says, watching the closet open over the top of the screen. He wants to know what Michael is so intent on back there.

"I've got a surprise for you," Michael says from behind the screen. "Close your eyes?"

Jon obliges him with a slight sigh. A moment later, he feels the swish of fabric, and Michael perching on his knee. He opens his eyes, and takes in the sight.

Michael's wearing a gown in a deep shade of red, wrapped around his torso and swirling over their laps. He looks - like himself but different too, soft and small and feminine. "How do I look now?" he whispers.

"Different," Jon observes.

"Really?" There's the edge of a pout in his voice when that's all Jon says.

"Michael, you're stunning."

"Stunning?"

"You take my breath away. Every time I see you."

"But?"

"I don't need you to wear a dress to want you," Jon arches a brow.

"Are you sure? I thought you might," Michael says, looking down at his hands.

"Jesus, Michael. Do you think I've never been with a man before?" He doesn't say it unkindly.

"I thought it was a fair assumption!" His breath catches a little as Jon's hand frames the side of his jaw, lifting his face.

"Before I met my wife, I was in love with one of the farm hands who worked with me and my brother, before my father was killed in the conflicts. It wasn't anything we considered to be a problem, in our family, though we were still careful. Then we got older, and things changed." He sees the sympathy flare in Michael's eyes, and smiles gently. "You're beautiful however you choose to dress, Michael. I'm not confused. I'm just -" Jon sighs. He doesn't know what he is, anymore. "A widower," he finishes, eventually. He strokes Michael's hair back.

Michael leans in and gives him the softest of kisses. "Sometimes I like to look like this. Sometimes I don't. I just wanted to know...."

"I don't mind you looking like this, if that's what you want. I just like you the way you are."

Michael shifts slightly so they're pressed closer. "I like you looking at me," he whispers.

"Some days, it's all I do."

"I know. I like that," Michael whispers, leaning in to brush their lips together.

"Don't muss your paint," Jon scolds fondly.

"Kiss me, Jon," Michael orders.

Jon slides a hand into the back of his curls, holding him close. He kisses him deeply, carefully. Michael shifts, silk skirts flowing over their legs until he's straddling Jon's lap. It steals his breath a moment. They always seem to end up here.

He grips Michael's hips, rolling them together. They both gasp at once. "Jon, god," Michael breathes.

He hasn't felt aroused in months, he thinks dizzily. It's not the gown, though, it's just the boy. Being in his bed, and in the sun of his affections. "Your beau," he breathes.

"All mine," Michael replies.

He thinks it's true, irrevocable and fierce. "Yes, Michael. I think I am."

He kisses him again, along the tender cut of his jaw. They're still rocking together, hot and prickling with need. Michael leans down to kiss his chest and Jon tugs him back up, exploring his exposed collarbones instead. He lips at the column of his throat, breaths rushing as Michael rocks faster against him.

He groans Jon's name at the ceiling, head falling back. He can't take his eyes off him. He never can, but more so now than ever.

"God, Jon," Michael tips his temple against Jon's, clinging tight, "s'all right?"

"It's all right," Jon whispers back. He's afire with wanting Michael, clutching and pulling, everything about it graceless. Everything has fled his mind but _now_ and _more_.

"Fuck," Michael pants.

"Michael," he pleads.

"Mmhm, tell me."

"Are you - what do you need -"

"Just this."

"I can - if you want -"

"You can-?"

"Give you more."

"More? More what?" It's gently teasing.

"I can touch you," Jon whispers.

"Do you want to touch me?"

Jon meets his eyes and nods. Michael's smile warms his whole face. "Maybe we should pick this back up when we have more time, you sweet man."

"How long do you think it'll take me-?"

"You should be asking how long I want it to take you."

"Michael -" he doesn't want him to go; to lose the ground they gained.

Michael leans in to kiss him. "You can't wait?"

"I really don't want to." Jon smiles ruefully at himself.

Michael smiles wider. "Now I think you ought to."

"Then I will." Anything Michael wants. He gives him a slow kiss. "I'll be waiting for you, beautiful."

"I'm sure you will." He smoothes down his skirts. "Should I go down like this tonight?"

"If you like," Jon tilts his shoulder up.

"You'll have to keep an eye on me," Michael grins.

"Will I? Why's that? You're a free man."

"Because I look so good," Michael says.

"You always do." Maybe if he says it enough, Michael will believe him.

"Maybe later-?"

"If you're not too tired, Michael. I know how it is."

"I will never be too tired for you."

It makes his ears turn hot, for some reason. Probably the look in Michael's eyes. "Go on, I'll be right behind you." He needs a moment to compose himself.

Michael goes with a flick of his curls. Jon takes a deep breath or two. Maybe a drink would have been wise. He'll get one from Miss Adelaide later. Now, he gets up with a sigh, dusts himself down and heads down to the bar. It's going to be a long night.

*

As promised, Michael receives no further unwanted - or unpaid - attention at the bar. And Jon has his drink to calm his nerves. It seems no one is surprised to find Michael in drag, or pulling it off quite as well as he does. In fact, Jon overhears a conversation between two men at the bar about which brothel has the prettiest and most abundant selection of boys in dresses.

He's not entirely surprised, he's seen plenty of strange sights these last months. San Francisco is a unique city. Jon still can't believe he's wound up here. He looks at Michael, and sighs softly. He doesn't want to leave nearly as much as he did before.

He's already lost sight of him a few times tonight, just for the sake of work. He simply knows that, now that they have reunited, he never wants to be apart. He _missed_ him. Only a matter of days, and it had been a hole in his chest. And now he's watching Michael dizzily turning on the emptying dance floor, make up a little smudged and smile wide, and his heart lurches.

Their eyes meet, and Jon tries to convey _Are_ _you done?_

It grabs his attention, and he moves toward Jon with visible intent. He leans over Jon at the bar to take a sip of his whiskey.

"Less water than usual," he muses.

"Nerves," Jon mutters.

"What could a big scary fella like you possibly be afraid of?"

Jon tilts his head. "Beautiful, persistent boys."

"Best kind, I've heard."

"I believe you," he whispers.

Michael gives him a wide, rouge-tinted smile. "Were you asking me something, just now?" he asks lightly.

"It's getting quiet. Do you have anyone else lined up?"

"Not as such," Michael replies. Something passes over his face at that, but he doesn't elaborate.

"Michael-?"

"No use hanging about any longer tonight," he says briskly.

"All right." Jon looks to Miss Adelaide. "Do you need me?"

She looks around the bar with a practiced eye. "No trouble left in here. Except for the trouble you're talking to."

"That's true. I'll see him out."

She just raises a brow. Jon tips back the last of his whiskey.

"Be seeing you," Michael sing-songs to Miss Adelaide, tugging Jon up gently by his arm. Jon allows himself to be lifted to his feet, following Michael up the stairs. "How do you feel?" Michael asks, soft and sweet as they go into his room.

"I feel well, Michael. You?"

"I feel as if I need a wash up. Want to help?"

"Of course. I'll go collect some hot water," Jon murmurs.

"You don't want a hand?"

"No, I'll take care of it." _Of you._

Michael seems to flush, still smiling. "Very well. Thank you."

Jon nods and goes back down to the kitchen. He fills the great iron tub with hot water, and carefully takes it back upstairs. When he knocks, Michael comes to the door, still dressed.

"Need some help?" Jon smiles.

"Why yes, that is why I waited."

"Thought it might be." He carefully sets the bathtub down and moves to Michael. "Where shall I start?"

Michael shows him the row of tiny buttons on his bodice. He's so small. Jon fears breaking him. He just wants to treasure him. He touches his bared chest gently as he unbuttons it with one hand.

"So lovely," he murmurs, peeling the silk off of his slim form.

"You think so?" He preens a little.

"Oh, yes." Jon urges him into the tub, trying not to stare too much.

Michael stretches out, entirely at ease, and Jon's nerves prickle. He's never seen Michael completely undressed before. To cover his nervousness, he goes to fetch Michael's soap and a cloth from the washstand.

"Thank you," Michael smiles, not quite shy as he takes them. Then he hesitates. "Unless you'd like to-"

Jon pauses. "I did say I'd help, didn't I-?"

"You did."

"Well then." He takes off his waistcoat and boots; rolls up his sleeves. Michael watches, rapt.

Jon kneels beside the tub and wets the cloth. "Face first," he murmurs. "I want to see you."

Michael closes his eyes and lets him wipe his face. The bruise re-emerges, but so does the soft skin he thrills to feel under his fingertips.

"Looks so sore, musling."

"I've had worse." He looks up at Jon, eyes like the morning sky.

"That's not as reassuring as you think."

"Ignore the eye, Jon. Wash the rest of me."

"Yes, sir," he says, amused. It's no hardship to continue spreading the scented bubbles. He scrubs Michael gently and thoroughly; down his back and under his arms, down his chest. He lathers the soap in his hands to move to his feet. Michael closes his eyes when he caresses his feet and legs.

"You're gentler than I thought you'd be."

"Why wouldn't I be gentle, little one?"

"I'm not sure."

"Never doubt that I would be."

"It's not - that it was you," Michael shrugs. "Not much call for gentleness these days, is there? Most people aren't."

"I'm not most people, and neither are you."

Michael sighs softly, tipping his face into Jon's hand when he reaches to push his hair back. He kisses the palm. Jon leans in to intercept the next. Michael raises up on his knees with a silvery sound. "You missed a couple spots," he murmurs when they break apart.

"Heavens, you must allow me to rectify that."

"Do I need to show you where they are?"

Despite himself, Jon laughs. "By all means, if you're worried I can't find them."

Michael just smirks up at him. He takes Jon's hand and guides it down into the water, between his thighs, slow and watchful of hesitance. When Jon fans his fingers and cups him loosely, they both shiver.

"Wash me clean for you," he whispers.

Jon does, tipping him gently back against the lip of the tub, arm cushioning his neck as he cleans him with gentle massaging motions. He can feel him getting hard, but doesn't comment. Michael, however, grips him with one dripping hand.

"Jon..." his eyes drop closed, voice shot through with an arrow of trembling want.

"Yes, musling?"

"God, don't stop?"

"Just long enough to dry you off?" Jon murmurs. Michael shakes his head nearly frantically enough to make Jon laugh. "They're your sheets." Jon uses his free arm to scoop Michael out of the tub and deposit his dripping form on his bed.

He grabs Jon before he can pull back; tugs him down into another kiss. Jon's own shirt is sticking to his skin within seconds, his hand still obediently stroking Michael's shaft. He's still filling out under his fingers, hot and velvety.

"Fuck," Michael breathes against his mouth, arching up.

"It's good?" Jon murmurs.

His frantic little nod is suffused with more emotion than words might convey. It's like he hasn't been touched for years, though Jon knows for certain he has, it comes with the territory. Not by anyone who matters, Jon thinks.

He's rolling his hips up, half writhing to minimize the space between them, droplets of water flashing on his skin in the lamplight. Jon allows himself to be tugged as close as he can be.

"It's all right," he mutters, kissing under his ear, "I've got you."

"I want to come. I need to come. You can have me however you want, I just need -"

"You can, whenever you want." He doesn't stop stroking, tightening his fist to spread the slick Michael's leaking. "Whatever you want."

"Kiss me again," Michael demands.

God, he couldn't resist even if he wanted to. He seals their mouths together, stroking Michael with long, slow squeezes and twists around the head each time. Michael's tongue sweeping against his keeps time with his hand. Even their breathing syncs - everything in them, heeding the call of Michael's enthusiastic young body. He moans, the sound caged by their mouths. Jon feels him pulsing in his hand as he gets closer, straining and leaking, the sound of his hand moving making wet clicks now. He's slick and hard and shaking against Jon's chest. His hand almost bruisingly tight on Jon's shoulder, his jaw locking on another moan as he starts to writhe in earnest.

"God, Jon, it's so good, it's just like I imagined -"

"How does it feel? Do you need more-?"

"Just like this - god -"

"Yes, Michael, whenever you want." He kisses his cheek again; his temple and jaw.

Michael throws his head back, arching up into him and pushing with his hips. Holding him close, Jon quickens his hand, breathing hot into the junction of Michael's throat. He kisses his boy's humid skin, sucking at the hollow until he can feel Michael's moans. He's still sopping, hair making a dark blot on the sheets, skin pricked with goose flesh from the cooling night air. He wears a heavy red flush, regardless, hips lifting insistently.

"Jon, Jon, I'm-"

"Go on, it's all right."

Michael makes a pained noise, hips jerking as he spills over his taut stomach. He's still clutching Jon, mouth dropping open as another surge dribbles over Jon's fingers. " _Oh God_."

Jon hushes him, kissing his sharp little jaw. He doesn't stop stroking him until Michael finally bridges back against the sheets with a little cry of overstimulation. Then he pulls back and grabs the flannel from the side of the tub.

"Wait, wait-"

"Steady, mus." He cleans his hand and Michael's stomach, kissing gently across his chest.

"You-?"

"Maybe in a minute." He noses against him, kissing at the corners of his mouth again. He leans down to whisper in Michael's ear, "Next time we'll come together."

The little shiver he gives in response is heartening. He's holding onto Jon again. "Yes. Please. Kiss me again-?"

"All night long, Michael."

Another little sound, so grateful it makes Jon's heart hurt. "You'll let me touch you next?" He whispers.

"If that's what you want. I can wait, if you're tired. If you want to just... be given something, for a change, not have it expected of you."

Michael laughs. "It's all I've wanted for weeks, Jon Jensen."

He's not sure what to say, but he wants to kiss him again, so he hopes it speaks for him. Kissing Michael is a pure pleasure like few other things he's experienced.

When they pull apart, Michael strokes his cheek, eyes scanning his face closely. "Are you happy, Jon?"

Is that what this feeling is? He feels dizzy with desire, something warm pulsing beneath. "I think I am," he says, softly.

"God, Jon, I'm so glad."

"So am I. Strange - I think I feel guilty," he confesses.

Clouds pass across Michael's eyes, but he still smiles softly. "I understand."

"Not guilty for how I feel about you," Jon reiterates softly, "it's followed me since they died."

"Guilty for surviving?"

"Guilty for - not being there."

"But you still feel happy?"

"When I'm with you," he whispers.

Michael's eyes shine. It's enough to make every second of uncertainty worth it. He kisses him again, tacit permission to touch. Michael seems keen to take while it's on offer. His hands spread immediately over Jon's chest.

He's working at his shirt buttons, hands careful. Jon helps him peel it off, then sucks in his stomach when he goes for his breeches. Soft kisses are a slight distraction. They feather over the hair on his chest, falling randomly. His hand slips inside his trousers carefully, finding his hot length and curling to squeeze.

He closes his eyes and lets out a harsh breath, cupping the back of Michael's neck. He presses their foreheads together while Michael explores. He's gentle, searching. Jon strokes through his tangled curls as he feels his soft kisses resume. He pulls away only briefly to lick a stripe over his palm before he resumes his careful stroking.

Jon can feel himself steadily filling out, ready for more. He tucks his face into Michael's neck and clutches him close. Michael soothes him with soft noises. "Jon, sweetheart, you're perfect. I want you to feel so good."

"It is good - I, Michael..."

"Tell me," Michael urges.

"You're beautiful," Jon tells him softly.

"And I'm yours. You can have whatever you want. Just tell me."

"This, just you."

"Will you fuck me?" Michael whispers. "Doesn't have to be tonight, but - eventually?"

Words stall in the back of Jon's throat, making him swallow quick. "If - if you want me to."

"Of course I do," Michael nearly groans. He's stroking him fast and smooth now, words blurring against Jon's skin. "God, Jon, I want you so bad."

"Tell me how, love."

"Want it like this, just us and no games, want to feel nothing but you inside me and touching me. Just you and me."

"No games," Jon repeats.

Michael kisses under his chin. "No. Something real."

"Can't see anything but you," Jon gasps.

"Good," he picks up the pace of his hand, the slide smooth and easy. "That's all I want you to see."

Jon pushes up into his hand, his own fingers pushing into damp curls, over a porcelain chest. "Michael." He clutches him closer, breathless and gut-punched by the closeness.

Michael lifts his face for a kiss. It's as sweetly, urgently giving as all his touches. His hand is slowly winding Jon tighter. He gasps, arching sharply.

"That's right," he murmurs, "give it to me, sweetheart."

Jon turns his head, breathing hard, stomach drawing tight. He sucks gently on the side of Michael's neck as his hips roll.

"Come on beautiful," he hears him whisper, "I've got you."

And he does. Jon feels his eyes roll as his balls tighten. He barely muffles the groan as he comes with a few stuttered twitches of his hips. Michael croons through it.

"God, Jon, yes..." He kisses Jon's lips a bit clumsily.

They ease back into it when Jon can think again, finding a rhythm. They both sigh into it. Giving into the impulse to curl his arms tight around him, Jon hides his face in his neck again and squeezes. "I haven't - since before..."

"Oh, Jon," Michael sighs. He squeezes him back. "I hope it was -" he breaks off and kisses him again.

"Yes," Jon assures, softly. They just press together until their breathing slows. Jon feels rekindled and burned low all at once. He's not sure he can move at all. He just wants to stay here, clasped in Michael's embrace.

*

Jon feels entirely entitled, the next morning, to fetch another plate of breakfast and to eat it in bed with Michael between kisses. It's only after Michael's gone off to tend to some chores that Jon sits down at the desk in his room to write a sorely-overdue letter.

The last time he'd written his brother was weeks back, when he'd first parted ways with Madelaine, and had a chance to finally stop and drink himself blind. It's been some weeks, now, since he's stopped doing that, and it all still feels raw underneath, like a healed-over burn. Especially when he tries to put words to it.

_I'm in San Francisco, Peter. I hope you're well. I regret that I've left you for so long, but I'm afraid I'll have to for a while longer. I've found some work, at the least, and I hope to return to you before the harvest season._

He pauses, biting his lip at the thought of Michael.

_I have found someone who I believe needs my help, and who can help me too, while I try to come to terms with this new part of my life. His name is Michael. I hope you'll understand, and that I see you soon._

_J_

He folds it and seals it and carries it to the post office before he can think better of it. He includes a return address. Then he returns to the Hart to track down Michael.

He finds him in his room, hurriedly counting together coins, distracted when he calls Jon in. Jon keeps quiet and watches. He looks - stressed, distracted.

"Michael?" he asks tentatively when he sits back.

"Yes, love?"

"Is everything quite alright?"

Michael looks at him, hair falling into his serious, soft eyes. "Yes. Yeah. It'll be fine."

"You know you can tell me anything," Jon persists just a moment more.

Michael sighs, and he leans back against Jon's legs heavily. "Thank you."

"It's my pleasure, sweetheart." He strokes through his hair briefly. Michael closes his eyes.

"Could we go out for a walk again tomorrow?" he asks softly.

"We can go today if you want."

"Can we?" Michael smiles.

"Of course. Right now." He offers Michael a hand to pull him up. They stand chest to chest for a brief moment. Jon certainly doesn't want to pull away.

"I missed you," Michael says softly.

"I missed you too," Jon murmurs. He grazes his knuckles softly against Michael's cheek. The bruise is starting to yellow.

"Still pretty?" Michael asks.

"Like an angel."

"Old testament angels aren't pretty, you know," Michael informs him crisply.

"Well, you are." He smiles. "You must be a New Testament angel."

Michael shakes his head. "If you say so."

"It's about the only thing I'll insist on," Jon assures him, "come on."

He watches Michael shrug into a shirt and jacket. Outside, the cooler afternoon is starting to settle in, the ground still shimmering with leftover heat. Jon resists the urge to take his arm. Michael looks like he hasn't seen the sun in weeks, even though Jon knows that to be untrue. The low current of worry that always circulates under his bloodstream seems to run faster.

He ushers him down the street to the quiet cafe with the decent coffee. "Let me get you something to eat."

Michael lets him, which surprises him a bit. He eats with his head down and his brows drawn in thought. Jon chances a touch at the back of his hand.

"Don't worry so much," Michael tells him softly.

"You might as well tell yourself not to be so pretty," Jon murmurs.

He sees Michael melt a little. "Charming when you want to be, aren't you?"

"I can be," Jon agrees.

"I like it."

That in itself is enough to make Jon want to seduce him. He almost regrets bringing him out. There's never enough time, it seems. But he looks beautiful, and it does them both good to get out of the inn. Though it's still a public place - sometimes Jon fantasizes about being totally alone with him.

He closes his eyes at the thought. A little house somewhere. A soft bed with a window over it. Just the two of them. When he opens his eyes, Michael is watching him. His eyes are as blue as the bay.

"Go somewhere nice?"

"Yes," Jon murmurs. "Like heaven.""

"Hope I get to see it someday."

"Me too."

They exchange another soft smile. "Thanks for this," Michael adds, pointing at his meal. "I needed this."

"It's not a problem."

"Sometimes I forget I can leave," Michael mumbles.

"I used to be like that."

Michael studies him briefly, and then smiles. "But now you know you can leave at any time, I guess."

It's like he knows about the letter, somehow. "I can't," Jon counters softly. "Not right now."

"Well." He reaches under the table and touches his thigh gently. "Good."

Jon knows they both feel it like a cool flow of water. He sighs and nudges him. Their fingers tangle.

Michael keeps eating then. Jon keeps watching him. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"No," Michael murmurs.

Jon nods. Okay. Michael knows he's here. He can accept that.

When he's eaten, Jon steers him back out into the sun gently. "A walk now?"

"I'd like that."

Michael stays close enough that their arms touch. It's easy, and quiet, and companionable. The sun caresses them with its late beams. It's easy to get lost together, winding through the streets, down to the bay to pick along the beach. Jon takes his hand a few times to help him over rocks. Michael clutches them a little longer than necessary each time.

Jon remembers long rambles around the farm with his sweetheart and wishes they were alone. Wishes he could see Michael paddling amongst the creamy waves. Maybe once it gets warm. Michael would look well with some sun. A golden cast to his lanky frame.

"Do you miss England, ever?"

Michael pauses by a rock. "Not really. Not anymore." He looks over his shoulder. "You miss home?"

Jon shrugs. "Sometimes. Nothing to go back to though."

"Guess not, if you lost your farm."

"Mm." Jon tries not to think of what else he's lost over the years. It's a long list.

"God, we're a bundle of laughs today, aren't we?" Michael huffs.

"What would make you laugh? I'll give it to you," Jon says promptly.

"I have no idea." Michael smiles apologetically.

Jon sighs and puts an arm around him. "Want to head back?"

"Might as well," Michael says, leaning. Jon savors his warmth. Then he draws back and leads him up the beach.

The scent of something delicate and floral on the warm wind attracts Jon's attention on the way back through the market, and he stalls. "I'll catch up with you, I have to just get something," he tells Michael.

"All right," Michael nods, looking curious.

Jon lets him walk on before he winds through the market stalls to the flowers they'd found the other day. He wants Michael to have flowers. Something red. Something as beautiful as he is. He lingers a while, then buys a few bursting heads of crimson azaleas, fierce as fireworks in the sun. Just like his boy. He catches up to Michael and hands them over on a quiet side street.

His smile is worth every coin and more. "Jon..." He flushes softly.

"Yes, Michael?"

"They're beautiful."

"So are you."

"Oh, Hell." Michael laughs. "Wow."

A laugh, even. He's delighted. He watches him bury his nose in the blooms with a hum. Then he watches him some more. All the way back to the Hart.

//

Michael wakes as he has become accustomed to, with warm arms enclosing him and flowers on the windowsill. He turns to nose sleepily at Jon, luxuriating in the way his arms tighten for a moment before he wakes up fully. They tighten then too.

"S'early, mus," Jon says blearily.

"You never told me what that means."

"Mm, the word is mouse."

"That's ridiculous," Michael tells him fondly. "You all go about calling each other mice?"

"I only call you that," Jon replies, petting his hair. "But I can stop if you think it's ridiculous."

"You'd better not, I love it."

"Ah, all right."

Michael rubs their noses together. "Good morning, Jon."

"Good morning, Michael."

He can't help but smile at the sight of him, sleep mussed and stubbled and picked out in silver. Every morning he wakes up to the sight, he thrills to it. Jon has moved his belongings here, what few there are, and his room is occupied by a new tenant. While Michael sometimes misses the thrill of knocking on Jon's door and slipping inside, this is...much better.

It hadn't been discussed, nothing romantic about it - just one day Miss Adelaide announced she wasn't keeping a room empty if he wasn't going to use it, and they'd shrugged at one another. None of the dramatics of the first time Michael had suggested it. He's learning that Jon makes decisions better when no one asks him to be definitive.

It's hard for Michael to ask for things, as well. Not without it coming out all wrong. So much of what he's used to is transactional. Jon seems to find that approach almost uncomfortable. They haven't touched since that night, and while Michael is confident it's not for lack of interest, he's got a low candle flame of anxiety burning: has he pushed this too hard? He doesn't know enough about this youthful sweetheart of Jon's. Twisting to kiss him, he strokes at his jaw.

"My Jon," he croons.

The warm chuckle Jon gives is surprised. "Is that right?"

"Oh, yes."

"As you say."

Michael kisses him again. He arches back slowly. Michael lets his hands travel up and down his chest.

"Do you need something?" Jon still sounds faintly amused.

"I would say...yes."

"Be specific, mm?"

"I'd like you to touch me back."

"Just your back?"

Michael rolls his eyes. "Are you always like this?"

"Yes," Jon says, sounding unrepentant. "I like things to be clear."

"I want you to make me feel good," Michael says, hoping a bit of an order has a better result.

Jon's expression seems understanding. "Very well, Michael."

Michael bites his lip. He lets Jon turn him onto his back. His expression is warm but not yet intent. He leans down to kiss Michael's throat, hands smoothing up his flanks, under his shirt. It's nice, but in Michael's fantasies Jon has forgotten how to go slow. He touches his hair idly, and Jon looks up.

"Musling," he says, kissing his jaw.

"Mmhm?"

"You're thinking very hard."

"How can you tell?"

"I just can. Am I wrong?"

"I'm always thinking hard."

"And I love that about you."

"But?"

"Be with me now," Jon murmurs.

"I'm thinking hard about being with you."

"Then tell me."

"I want you," Michael whispers, "and I'm afraid my wanting you is making you... wary of disappointing me."

Jon makes a soft noise in response. "I think that's true. To an extent."

"To what extent?"

"To the extent that I want to please you like no one else does."

Michael bites his lip. "I know you do."

"So what else is there to think about?"

"Worrying about why you're still holding back."

Jon considers, stubble warping as he bites his lower lip. "All anyone ever wants from you is physical gratification," he murmurs eventually, "which is fine, I know that's your job - but I don't want to just ask for things from you that you spend a lot of time giving."

Michael rubs their cheeks together. "But you should still ask, because I want you to have them. I want them from you too."

"I'd prefer you asked when you want them," Jon kisses the corner of his mouth; his cheeks and jaw.

"I've been afraid to push."

"I'm sorry you've been afraid. You don't have to be."

"No?" Michael murmurs.

"No, Michael."

Michael takes a breath. "Jon. Suck me, please. I need it."

He watches him wet his lips, then nod, breath shaking out. "Anything you want, mus."

He leans down to kiss him, then makes his way down. His stubble scrapes slowly and deliciously. Michael arches, shivering at the tingle. His skin is so sensitive, especially over his ribs and stomach. When he gives an approving gasp, Jon rasps his cheek against his navel with a chuckle. He wriggles against the scrape. Then shivers when Jon kneels up over him to tug down his shorts.

"Look at you," Jon whispers.

"Tell me what you see."

"Need," Jon says. "Deeper than you'd like to admit."

"I'll admit it," Michael says, with a curl of amusement.

"I see."

Hopeful it's evident, Michael wriggles his hips. Jon relents and curls a hand around him. It's hot and dry and Michael can't keep from bucking up.

"Easy," he urges.

"Please, none of this was easy," Michael jokes.

Jon smirks. He squeezes and strokes again slow. "It's working out well enough for me."

"It's not so bad for me right now either."

Jon meets his eyes and lifts his hand to spit in his palm. Michael bites his lip. Jon is captivating. When he wraps his hand back around Michael, his eyes are heated.

"You feel so hard, lovely."

"Mm, no argument here," Michael sighs, hips kicking a bit as Jon strokes tight again.

"And all this just for me," Jon murmurs.

"God, yes. I want you every moment," Michael tells him.

That gets him a soft smile, and then Jon bows his head to kiss the thin skin joining hip and thigh. "I feel the same."

"Good," Michael gasps at the pass of his tongue, "good..."

Jon's hands are strong and steady. He's so gentle, no teeth and no force, just sweet, careful kisses until he meets where his hands are working with his lips, sucking Michael into his mouth smooth and easy. Michael has to hold himself still. It's dizzyingly good, Michael can almost taste the desire in the air.

He gulps in big breaths as Jon works him. His throat feels bottomless, hot and satiny. The rest of his body feels hot and weightless.

"You're different like this," Michael murmurs. He's not expecting an answer. He just - wants to talk to him. "Every day I see you, I can't believe you're real."

Jon hums softly. Michael strokes his hair. He can't stop examining him, angles and softness and hard lines. The heat of him. The power of him. He seems so sturdy and still gentle.

"Oh, Jon," he sighs.

He's varying his pace between long sucks of his mouth and teasing flicks of his tongue under the head. Nothing about it says inexperience. The thought arrests Michael with need. He arches up, hips rolling gently. When Jon pulls off, he whines in disappointment.

"You promised."

"Always in such a rush, Michael."

Michael laughs helplessly. "For you? Always."

"Flattering," he murmurs. His soft, wet mouth is gleaming as he licks Michael slowly.

It feels too good to be mad. He tells him so, the words bursting out in a torrent of needy praise. Jon returns to a steady suction as Michael's hips work up into his mouth. Everything feels hot and damp, and the gentle stroke of his thumb against Michael's perineum has him shivering hard.

"Give me fingers," he whimpers.

With a soft hum, Jon pulls off his cock and resumes his strokes with his hand as he dips to lick down behind his balls delicately. Michael had thought he might spit again. There is an assortment of small jars in a drawer two feet away. But no, Jon merely covers him with his mouth. Covers, and licks thoroughly. He has Michael gasping immediately.

"Jon, my god-"

It feels so good, he can't concentrate. He's arching, pressing for more, half mindless already.

Jon holds him steady. Spreading him with his other hand, lapping and sucking and working him open. Michael starts to whine deep in his throat.

"Fuck, Jon, give me your fingers, please, fuck."

"Sweetheart," Jon murmurs, pressing.

"Yes, yes, that's it," Michael arches for the tips of his fingers; he can never get enough of this, and especially not with Jon, every movement measured with the utmost care. His hands are strong and broad and his fingers are long, and he breaches Michael so slowly but with perfect pressure. Easing, stretching presses and twists.

"You seem to like this part a lot," he observes, voice innocuous.

"Of course I do," Michael groans.

"It's incredible to watch you."

"Good-" his voice goes tight when Jon twists his fingers again. He bleats his name again, twisting, turning his face into his bicep as Jon takes him back into his mouth. Now he's being sucked and fingered at the same time, and it's so much. He squirms and rocks into both, starting to pant vocally. The pleasure is a syrupy, dribbling stream inside him, filling him up like honey. He's feels so light that he's glad of Jon's hands. Gladder still of his mouth. "Jon," he groans. "Oh, Jon, it's perfect."

It's pulling him all directions at once, overwhelming and intense. He feels the deep ripples of his body starting to draw tight.

"Jon, there, that's-"

Jon presses just so, tongue swirling, and his back arches hard. The noise that stutters out isn't in a voice Michael recognizes, plaintive and small and desperate. So desperate he gets lost in it. In every stroke and suck and hum. His body is Jon's in that moment. And Jon seems to know exactly how to work it. So Michael lets him, until he's biting his knuckles to muffle his cries.

It only partly works. "Oh, _god_ , Jon." He lets himself give in to the tide. His body winds right up again. "Jon!"

He feels Jon's little vibrating moan as he starts to come. Then everything whites out. His orgasm curls him tight, toes and fingers and every muscle. He feels himself squeeze around Jon's fingers, feels Jon's throat pulse and roll around him.

Then he feels a sudden rush, like a wave breaking. He clutches Jon tightly, though Jon doesn't pull back. He's still sucking, still gently stroking inside, slow and careful. He gentles Michael back down until his breaths sound less like gasps. It's a plateau of carefully maintained pleasure, and Michael still twitches with the aftershocks of coming even as Jon pulls away and gently cleans him up with last night's discarded shirt. Michael can't take his eyes off him.

"Okay?" Jon asks softly.

"The best I've ever -" Michael stops, then finishes on a whisper, "ever had."

"Michael..."

Michael bites his lip. "Come kiss me." He finds himself blushing.

Warm hands stoke it further, cupping his cheeks as Jon kisses him softly. Michael tastes himself with a quiet moan. He can't let Jon up; can't relinquish this particular closeness just yet. He wants him always. But especially now.

"Thank you," he whispers against his lips.

Jon caresses his cheek. "You don't have to thank me, Michael."

"I want to."

"It's my pleasure," Jon says, voice curling around the word.

"Is it?" Michael replies, hand trailing down to see. A little throb of oversensitive need goes through him at the weight of Jon's hardness against his hand, hot through his shorts.

Jon makes a soft noise at the touch.

"You always say what you mean, don't you Jon?"

"I try to."

"It's very much appreciated." Michael nuzzles him as punctuation.

"I'm glad to hear it." Jon's voice is breathy as Michael moves his hand.

He feels more than glad. He wants to give him as much unspeakable pleasure as he's been given. With a soft sigh, Michael turns him over and kneels up to pull at his underwear.

Jon helps enough that their hands keep bumping. Michael stops him by catching his, lifting both to his mouth, pressing a kiss to each of his palms. "Let me."

Biting his lip, Jon subsides.

Michael's mouth curves up. He lets his hands go, and returns to his work. When he slides the cloth down, he leans in to breathe in his scent. Musky, sharp, needy. He lays his cheek against Jon's belly to breathe in some more.

Jon strokes his hair. Michael opens his mouth for a taste of him. He takes his time; breathes him in. Feels him shiver with the rush of air over hot skin. Then he lips slowly at the head of his cock, tongue teasing.

He takes him in his mouth slowly. Jon lets out a shuddering sigh above him and Michael breathes slowly in through his nose. He can't help but whine at the taste. His mouth waters immediately. He has to suck; to overwhelm himself fully. He allows himself to slide down as far as he can.

It's worth it for Jon's short gasp. Also the stretch feels amazing to his own flooded senses. He tips his chin to swallow him deeper, sucking wet and slow. Jon twists strands of his hair in his fingers.

"So beautiful," he mouths.

Michael presses with his tongue in response. His eyes slide shut of their own accord when Jon strokes his hair back gently. He starts to suck.

Jon swears softly above him. It's like music. He's as contained as ever but beautiful with it, so gentle even as he strokes his fingers through Michael's hair and arches. He's achingly hard even so. He breathes Michael's name over and over.

Michael replies in the only way available to him. That's with an intent swallow and bob of his head. He thinks they both get lost in it after that. He's totally absorbed in the taste and feel and sound of Jon. All he wants is to give him pleasure. To stop him feeling guilty. Michael wants Jon as besotted as he is.

As it is, he's knuckling the bedsheets with fervor. His hips lift gently as Michael sucks him. The first signs of neediness start when he grips Michael's hair loosely. Michael rewards him with a low moan. He flicks his eyes up; watches Jon bite his lower lip.

"Keep going," he mutters.

That makes Michael laugh a little; not much would stop him. He teases with his free hand. His thumb making gentle circles, wonders if Jon would let him some time. He doesn't seem to flinch or show concern. Michael keeps gently pressing and Jon hisses his name again softly. Michael can taste the change in his slickness. He sucks harder; thumbs at the rim of his hole and groans when Jon jerks and tenses with closeness.

"Yes," he keens.

A bitter flood of fluid; Michael feels Jon jerk. He holds tight and lets him push in. He's tight, a little tense, but a rub of his thumb makes his thighs shake. He feels his cock jerk. Another few strokes and sucks has him shuddering and coming with a gasp.

Michael groans to feel it. He just wishes he'd _seen_ it. He wonders if he could get Jon to show him sometime. For now, he just lays his cheek against his stomach again and sighs in content.

He feels fingers in his hair again. "Come back," Jon whispers. He lets himself be guided up against Jon's chest instead. They breathe hard against one another for a moment, clinging in the quiet.

 _I could tell him_ , he thinks to himself.

Jon is stroking slow down his back, eyes half shut, everything about him warm and relaxed for once. He can't do it. Can't take that away from him.

"What's the matter?" Jon mutters, soft and easy.

"Nothing's the matter, love."

"You're quiet, usually you've said something by now."

"Don't want to work, want to stay right here," Michael tells him.

"You've got a bit of time yet."

"I don't want to at all."

He feels Jon shift to look down at him. "Not like you."

"I know," Michael forces a bit of cheer into his voice. "Bad for business, that."

No corresponding mirth. Jon cradles him closer and strokes his hair. "I can back you up, if you want."

"No need, I'm being silly. I'll bathe and dress and be on my merry little way as usual."

"Are you sure-?"

"Of course." Michael pats his cheek. "You have my mind all muddled, love."

"I'm not sorry."

"I imagine not." That amuses Michael to no end. He's never heard Jon be so openly devious. It's utterly charming. Michael has to lean up and kiss him. He suspects that was the intent.

Jon strokes his back again. "You seem distracted, mus."

"I know. Hopefully I won't be soon."

"You'll have to tell me sooner or later, you know."

No, he won't. "Hmm. We'll see."

Jon sighs and kisses him again. "What about a walk to the bakery before work?"

"Mm, sounds good," Michael murmurs.

"Go on, then. Get dressed and I'll buy you sweets."

"What a man." Michael kisses him again once and jumps up. Jon follows at a slightly slower speed. They both dress casually and slip their feet into their boots.

The afternoon is warm and bright as ever. It helps with the crawling feeling Michael has of being...observed, somehow. He's overtly aware of the bruise on his face. Face paint isn't quite as tolerated in the light of day.

Beside him, Jon is solid and safe. Michael revels in the feeling as much as in the flaking sugar and dough of the pastry shop's daily offerings. It's a fantasy; a little pocket of warmth in which to keep his joy. It keeps him from stiffening as quickly as he should when a hand grabs his elbow in the market, a burly, bearded figure growling "Time's up" as a piece of paper is crumpled into his unresisting palm.

Jon snatches him behind him in the blink of an eye, squaring up with the stranger silently. "Move on," he growls.

Michael is shaking, he realizes, afraid to watch Jon get hurt; to be hurt again himself. Fortunately, the man contents himself with one meaningful look at Michael over Jon's shoulder. He lumbers away, leaving Michael clutching the hand that's fastened to his waist for a second before Jon turns to him.

"Did he hurt you-?"

"No, of course not. Probably just drunk or something."

Jon's face shifts, the first open sign of disappointment Michael has seen from him. Michael quietly crushes the paper into an even smaller ball.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. Jon just nods, taking his elbow briefly to turn him back towards the Hart. The loss of the rest of their walk feels like potential grief, and he stalls. "Jon no, wait-"

"No, Michael," Jon says softly.

"Please, I don't want to go back." He pleads with his eyes as well.

"You have to tell me what's going _on_ , Michael."

"You're not my _father_ , Jon."

He watches the way the words cut him; watches him snatch away from Michael as if reeled on a line. His face closes down. It was cruel. He knows it. Jon is walking away from him, and he can't stop it. He forces himself to at least watch it happen. He earned it. He feels sick to his stomach.

Finally, he unfolds the small wad of paper and looks down. His hands shake too much for him to read it at first. It's smudged, but legible still.

_Time's up. Meet outside the tailor on Third when the Hart closes._

Heart resounding in his chest like a war drum, Michael folds the letter back up. He's got enough, if he cleans out his savings too. If he makes enough tonight, that is. He'll have to try.

*

By the time the night is through, he feels hollowed out and sore, shivering in the dark alley with his savings stuffed into a small leather pouch to keep them together. He's never felt more alone. Or more afraid.

The sound of a heavy boot in the street makes him stiffen. He clutches the bag tightly to his chest. It's not the man from before, though he thinks he's seen him around the place. Bothering Emily, perhaps.

"You got the money?" he mutters, hands in his pockets, a head taller than Michael and three times as broad.

"Like the note said." Michael shivers. It's cold out here tonight. But when the gun barrel nudges against his throat, he starts to shake in earnest.

"Hand it over then. Nice and slow."

"Your boss doesn't usually pull guns on his lendees." Michael obeys, hand shaking.

"Perhaps that's why I'm holding this wad and he's not, then. Turn around, keep your face against the wall."

Okay, Michael thinks. His heart pounds as he does as he's told, fingertips scraping the brick.

A laugh, thick and choking, and then the swish of fabric and the cold metallic impact of a gun butt on his temple.

When he comes to, all he's aware of at first is the scent of the earth; the throb in his head.

Then he realizes someone is shaking his shoulder and he twists to get away, pushing his back up against the wall.

"What happened to you?"

It's the bearded man. Michael feels his stomach twist. "Please," he says blurrily, "I already handed it over, the other guy-"

"What other guy?"

"How should I know? He's one of yours, he comes around to see Emily." Michael touches the side of his head gently, testing for blood. There's a patch of dried down stickiness there that makes him feel dizzy to touch.

"Describe him," the bearded man says shortly.

"Big, blonde, tattoo of a spider on his neck."

"And why should I believe you?"

"Look at my fucking face," Michael snaps, "you think I'd risk this and my life, _and_ Emily's?"

He narrows his eyes at the tone, and Michael shrinks back farther. "You have one more day while I look into this. Then I assume you're in on it."

"Great, one of your fucking _lugs_ already took all my fucking money, how am I meant to get it back-?" Even as he says it, he knows.

"That's your problem, not mine. Watch your fucking mouth."

"If you find him, you consider Emily's debt paid," Michael hisses. Then he chokes, slammed back against the wall by his throat, winded and dizzied by the force of it.

"I'll consider it paid when you put it in my hands."

"Tell me where to meet you," Michael wheezes.

"Here, tomorrow. And to show you how serious I am..." he raises a fist, and Michael finds himself desperately wishing for Jon.

It lasts a long time, but at least he spares Michael's face. Then he lets him slide down the wall finally to choke on great, painful breaths. When he's alone, he wonders how many of those twenty-four hours he'll need just to limp back inside. He grips onto the brickwork, panting hard, and the sound of footsteps makes him jolt and wince in pain - and then Miss Adelaide is there, her eyes wild with worry, bright with tears.

"Michael, what have y'fucking gotten yourself into-?"

"Robbed," he gasps, wincing away when she tries to lift him.

"Robbed-? Of your takings?"

"Everything - I needed, Emily was -"

She shushes him softly, pulling his arm over her shoulder and levering him up. He cries silently, feeling contusions shift. He's not sure if his ribs are broken. She keeps trying to guide him into a kitchen chair, and he resists.

"I need to find Jon."

"You need t'sit down, I'll send one of the boys to find him."

Michael listens, because that's what you do to Miss Adelaide. He's still gripping his ribs, wincing when she brings a cloth to wipe his face.

"Out with it," she says as she gently cleans blood from his hair. Michael holds out until she prods a bruise on his throat sharply. "Now!"

"Emily is using again," he pants, "opium - she was borrowing money to buy it, but she used her takings for more and they said they'd kill her if she didn't pay by today, but she got messed up from the last batch-"

"You didn't, Michael," she sighs, knowing instantly that he did - he'd taken on the debt, how could he not?

"I had savings," he protests weakly, "I put it together, I was gonna put it to bed and get her clean-"

"And someone robbed you. How? Who? Why didn't you meet them in the Hart?"

"Because I didn't want Jon to see," Michael hates the whimper in his voice; how he's threatened by tears.

"He doesn't know?"

"No. I didn't want him to know about - I didn't want him to think I was using."

"I'd have assumed he'd be able to tell," she grouses, unbuttoning his shirt.

"What do you mean-?"

"If you were using. You're in each other's pockets."

"Not anymore," Michael mutters.

"Don't be so sure." Adelaide is binding his ribs with scraps from her work basket, not paying mind to his winces. "Heavens, you're a bloody mess, boy." He just bites his lip, looking down. "When Jon sees this..."

"We had an argument this afternoon," Michael whispers. "It was my fault, I said something cruel."

"You're a damn fool," she tells him.

"You think I don't know that? I've warned him a thousand times about me."

"Obviously not enough."

"Yes," he says faintly, and the dread creeps up on him. "Miss Adelaide, he took my money- I don't know what I'm going to do."

She looks sad. "Run, or pray," she says succinctly. He closes his eyes, gripping the arm of the wooden chair as she goes back to his head, bleeding again. "Press on this cloth," she instructs, folding a thick pad and going for another fabric strip.

He does as he's told, staring miserably at the flagstoned floor. He lets her bind the bandage around his forehead, then she touches his cheek.

"Go into the bar, I'll get you something for the pain."

He sits himself on the lowest seat he can find, breathing hard through the discomfort. She pours him a shot of clear liquid - not his favored whiskey, but pure grain alcohol. He curls his lip in anticipation of the taste before he throws it back.

It burns like hell. His cough hurts his ribs and stomach, and he holds onto himself tightly; lets his forehead drop onto the oiled wood of the bar. He's crying again before he knows it. Miss Adelaide's hand comes to rest gently between his shoulder blades, soothing with her thumb.

"If I had the money, love, I swear you could have it all."

"I'd never ask for that."

"I know, but that's what you do for your family, isn't it?" She smiles at him sadly.

"Yes, it is." He feels the tears again. She shushes his tremble gently.

"Could never have children of my own, always wanted them," she continues mildly. "This wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I arrived here, I'll give you that, but it is what it is. We'll figure something out, trust me."

"I only have a day," Michael whispers.

"So we'll hide you. We'll ask around, we'll borrow, beg, steal. We will fix it."

"I just want Jon," Michael mumbles.

At that moment, the sound of hooves outside in the quiet dawn streets; the whinnying of an agitated horse. Michael lifts his head.

"That must be Jon now," Miss Adelaide mutters.

"You knew where he was."

"He took Emily to the Doctor, she started shaking and twitching all out of herself."

"She -" Michael bolts upright suddenly enough to make him moan.

"It's withdrawal, plain and simple." She holds him steady. She's still holding him when Jon bursts through the door.

  
He stalls in the doorway, then tears off his hat, throwing it down on a table. "Michael-"

Michael just stares. Jon looks rough, not as rough as him but rough nonetheless. He reaches out for Michael; stops himself and drops to his knees in front of him, eyes wide.

"What happened-?"

Michael rolls his head toward Miss Adelaide, who looks stern. "Emily owes a man a lot of money," he whispers. "I told her I'd take care of it, and the note got called in. One of his men stole it from me. Now it's gone and I have twenty-four hours to pay up."

There's a heavy silence that follows, the kind that presses in on a dank, cold cellar, but then Jon moves, standing to get a better look at Michael. His hand on his shoulder is so gentle it makes Michael's eyes sting.

"I left, and this happened to you."

"This happened to me because of a bad man," Michael says tiredly.

"Do you know who it was?"

Michael chances a look up and is stunned by the flatness of Jon's eyes. The promise of it opens up in front of him like a fork in the road. He examines both, and swallows the lump in his throat.

  
"He's one of Parker's grunts, the procurer, he must have thought he'd pull a fast one and let me take the fall. He has a spider tattooed on his neck."

"I know him," Miss Adelaide murmurs.

Jon looks at her. "Where can I find him?"

"If he's running from Parker, I'm not sure, but when he's not here he and his cronies drink at the Broken Bow."

Jon nods, but at the same time he stirs into motion, gently urging Michael's arms around his neck and slipping his own under his back and knees, lifting him smoothly. It still hurts, and Michael groans.

"It's all right, I'm sorry," Jon whispers, starting for the stairs.

"I'm the one who should be sorry."

Jon doesn't say anything for a few minutes while he carries Michael carefully upstairs. "You hurt me," he murmurs finally.

"I know," Michael winces as Jon lowers him carefully to the bed, "I know. It was a cruel, hateful thing to say."

"This is what you were hiding from me?" he asks slowly.

Shame pierces him as he nods.

"Why?" Jon murmurs.

"Because I didn't... I wanted you to think I was a good person, I didn't want you to think I was trouble, you've had enough of that..."

"You didn't do anything."

"I used to," Michael says quietly, "me and Emily - we both quit together, when we came to San Francisco." He sighs, rolling to his back to ease the pressure on his ribs. "It could have been me."

There's no answer but silence at first, and then Jon sits down on the edge of the mattress beside him. "But Emily is using again." He shakes his head. "And you took her debt. How could I think you were a bad person, Michael?"

"Getting myself involved in bad business, then."

"I'm no stranger to bad business."

"You didn't need to be burdened with mine."

"It's not a burden if I'm happy to bear it."

Michael can his blood starting to heat as they continue to argue. It just makes his misery increase. "Jon, please, if you're going to go then just do it."

"Michael, don't you understand? I never want to leave you. Not in this lifetime." He reaches to cup his face in his hands, careful not to hurt him. "I am going to leave after you fall asleep, and I am going to go to the Broken Bow. But I will come back. Because I love you," he murmurs.

"Jon..."

"I cannot let anyone who hurt you walk away without repercussions," he says, solemnly.

Michael doesn't tell him it was Parker who did the worst of the damage.

"Tomorrow, I'll talk to Parker," Jon continues, "about this debt."

"Not without me," Michael tells him.

"Michael."

"No, Jon. If you do love me -" his voice wavers over the words "-you won't leave me out of this."

"I don't want you to be hurt any more-"

"Then don't let him. But I need to be there."

They hold one another's gaze, and finally Jon sighs. "If you promise to rest until the meeting."

"I have to try and find some way to pay."

"Not alone."

"But Jon-"

"Just sleep, mus." He strokes Michael's cheek. It's so good to be close to him again; safe with him. "If anything had happened to you, Michael," he whispers, "I would never have been able to rest until-"

"It's not your fault," he whispers, "Jon, it's not."

"No," he says softly, face slowly hardening into marble. "What happens now will be."

Michael clutches him.

"Jon -"

"I'm going to get your money back," he murmurs. "And make sure they won't hurt you ever again."

"I don't expect that, you could get in trouble, or you could be hurt."

"Don't stop me, Michael."

He sighs heavily, unwilling to let him go. "Will you just - stay with me for now?"

Jon kisses his forehead, right under the bandage. "Until you can sleep."

"I'm sorry," he bleats again, softly.

"Don't, Michael; please."

"I am though."

"I know."

"I should have told you."

"I know that too."

Michael shivers and sighs. Jon's voice is kind. Kinder than he deserves. He curls into him, only truly settling when Jon presses alongside him on the bed, hand moving gently over his chest.

This man loves him, he tells himself. He's shocked by the realization; how plain it is. Of course Jon loves him. And of course he loves Jon.

God, he really does. Like he's never loved anyone before. The thought makes him clutch at Jon's shoulder urgently.

"Jon."

"Musling?"

"I love you," Michael whispers, "you know that right?"

He feels Jon breathe, nice and slow. "I know, Michael." His hand covers Michael's on his shoulder. "And I you." Michael closes his eyes and Jon kisses softly under his ear. "Sleep for me, love."

Michael wants to try. For him. And if he's asleep, maybe he won't be sore. It's worth a shot.

As he closes his eyes, Jon's breath against his shoulder and his hand still making gentle circles on his chest, Michael finally starts to relax. He's safe. And when he wakes in the morning, Jon is still sat by him, though there's a tired set to his shoulders, his hands moving slow.

"Did you sleep?" Michael whispers.

"I was busy," Jon mutters.

Michael clutches at his arm, raking his eyes over his body.

"He already spent some of it," Jon continues, "but I think most of it's in here." He sets a leather wallet into Michael's hand.

"Jon - Christ, what happened-?"

"I went out after you fell asleep," Jon says calmly. "I went to the Broken Bow, and I tracked down the man with the spider."

Michael watches the cool set to his face; how utterly unmoved he seems. "You found him," he murmurs.

"I did."

"He's dead?"

"Not quite."

"Wh-where, what -"

"He won't be bothering you again."

Michael closes his eyes and sighs. "I hope you're right." He makes Jon help him sit up so he can count the money.

He's right: most of it's still there. He wonders if Miss Adelaide can help with any of the shortfall.

"I have a little," Jon says quietly.

"No, Jon. That's what I didn't want in the first place. I just don't want you to get arrested."

"I'm not worried about that." His expression makes Michael shiver.

"Thank you," he breathes.

"You're welcome, love. I only wish it hadn't happened." He caresses gently over Michael's ribs. He looks so tired, like maybe he's favoring a few bruises of his own.

"What time is it?" Michael whispers.

"Your twenty hour hours aren't quite up."

"Can we sleep?"

Jon looks surprised, but he nods. "Yes."

Michael sighs. It's what he needs to keep himself from feeling like he's flying apart. Carefully, so sweetly, Jon lies down and wraps him up in his arms.

"I've got you, sweetheart."

"So strange to feel relieved," Michael admits quietly.

"We can feel many things at once."

"It's just not the norm."

Jon kisses his forehead. "I understand. Sleep, Michael. We have time."

He can't help but nuzzle under Jon's jaw. It hurts. Everything still does. A gentle hand cupping his cheek startles a little sob out of him, so tender, and Jon makes a tiny hushing sound. He kisses him again, very lightly, and strokes his hair over the bandage.

The tears still slip out, just silently now.

"It's all right, mus," Jon whispers, "I love you."

"I know," Michael whispers back. He clutches him tighter despite the ache.

It feels like only minutes later that Jon is gently waking him again. "Mus, I brought you some food."

Michael tries to sit up again. His caught groan is only slightly stifled by Jon carefully levering him up. Jon makes a regretful face.

"I'm sorry. Come on."

He helps Michael into the chair and hands him a covered plate. It's a little easier once he's there, and the dinner is mostly easy to eat with his back rigid with tension. Jon just watches him, eyes steady on his face.

"Aren't you eating?"

"Already did. This is yours."

He tries not to grumble. "What do I do about not having all the money-?"

"I didn't get that back so we could give it to Parker."

"What the hell do you mean by that, Jon," Michael says, annoyed at how his voice goes high.

Jon gives him a steady look.

"Jon, don't you want this to be over?"

"It will be over."

"It will be over if we pay him!"

"I can think of another way."

"Jon -"

"Over for you, for Emily, and for anyone else he's exploited."

"You could be put in prison. Or worse-"

"I could have been put in prison for Black Creek, too."

"And you still could be."

"Jon Jensen might. No one says I have to be him anymore."

Michael watches him for a few seconds, lost. "What are you saying."

Jon looks down at his hands. "We could leave together. Go to my brother, help with the new farm." He sighs. "I know you like it here but - you'd be safe."

"Is that all I'd be?"

"You'd be loved." He meets Michael's eyes. "You'd always be loved."

"I don't need rescuing from this, Jon," Michael whispers. "You know that right?"

"I'm the one who needs you," Jon says, looking down at his hands. "I'm being selfish, I'm sorry."

"Wanting me to stay with you isn't selfish."

"But wanting you to come away with me is."

"I don't think either of us want this to be over," Michael murmurs.

"Is it, though?" Jon asks balefully.

"We'll see," Michael sighs. "We need to meet Parker first."

Jon nods. "Yes. You don't need to come, you can stay up here."

"Jon, I am not staying here."

That makes him sigh. "It would be safer -"

"I know that." He fixes Jon with a steady gaze. "Don't try to stop me."

"It wouldn't be hard, the state you're in."

"I might not forgive you if you do," Michael threatens.

That makes Jon sigh again. "All right, but I won't hold back."

"I wouldn't expect you to." They look at one another silently for a moment. Michael's heart aches as much as his body. He closes his eyes when Jon leans and softly kisses his forehead.

"Very well, finish your dinner and we'll go."

Their argument isn't over either. Michael feels tense at the thought; at everything. It's been a long time since he's been this scared. It spirals out inside him like a firecracker. Jon, meanwhile, has withdrawn into himself.

He helps Michael get washed and dressed when he's ready, looking out of the window at the setting sun. Michael only has eyes for him. He's astonished by his good fortune. He still feels undeserving.

Rotten, and unlovable. Always a problem and never a solution. He grimaces at the thought: he was trying so hard to be the solution for Emily. He was so happy for the chance that he wasn't nearly careful enough. And now Jon, sweet, tortured Jon, has to finish it for him. Because he's right, isn't he? Parker has to die. So they can all be free.

The only question he has left is if they'll be alone, too. He thinks about what Jon asked him. Offered him. He's offering him a different kind of life. Jon's life.

There's nothing wrong with Michael's life - being a prostitute never struck him as some great tragedy: he keeps his own hours, sets his own rates and chooses his own clients. But there are certainly pros and cons to both sides of the coin. Knowing Jon, he won't press for an answer either. He never presses for anything from Michael.

Michael's not sure what he wants him to do, this time.

When it's time, Jon looks at him. "You're sure you want to be there?"

"Yes, Jon." He tucks the wallet back in his pants pocket when Jon's not looking. Just in case. Slowly, he lets Jon support him down the stairs and outside, Miss Adelaide tentatively touching Michael's shoulder as he passes. He knows she'll be close by, but he doesn't want her involved either. He thinks Jon feels the same.

As they let themselves into the alley, Michael is surprised by how quietly Jon moves. He keeps himself in front of Michael, suddenly seeming so much taller and broader than he has before. Parker is there waiting. Michael's chest seizes afresh at the sight of him.

"What's this, Princess?" he addresses Michael crudely. "I told you to come alone."

"Maybe I needed help walking after what you did to me," Michael murmurs, feeling Jon still at the revelation.

"Cry me a river. Where's the money?"

"I have most of it right here," Michael murmurs.

"But he's not giving it to you," Jon interrupts. "I have a better offer."

"Did I ask for a better offer?" Parker spits back.

"No, but I think this one will interest you. Are you listening?"

"Does this guy speak for you, Princess?"

"Option one," Jon asserts, keeping Michael behind him, "you drop the debt as an apology for the pain you've caused Michael, especially considering it's not his to pay, and you walk away from this place with all your teeth. Option two, you reject my offer, and I bury you in the desert without a marker."

"Fuck you," Parker says.

"There's still time to choose option one," Jon murmurs. He still hasn't made a move for a weapon.

Parker is the first to pull his gun, and Michael barely sees Jon move through his cringe, but the next thing he knows Parker cries out and crashes to the floor, and Jon turns the pistol on him. He shoots him with his own gun, and Michael makes himself watch him do it. Watches him writhe and choke on the first shot, blood seeping onto the grit under his shoulder.

"There's still time to choose option one," Jon reiterates again, calmly.

Parker may have been shot, but he's clearly meaner than that. He struggles against Jon's weight, and Jon cocks the revolver again.

"My men will come after you," Parker spits.

"Your men try to steal from you," Jon says flatly. "Last chance."

"You have a death wish?"

"Someone does," Jon mutters, and the next shot cracks like thunder into his skull. Michael makes himself watch that too. He holds onto Jon, curiously undisturbed by the whole thing. Around them, the bustling San Francisco night scene carries on undisturbed.

"Jon," he whispers, as the man twitches and expires.

"Are you all right?" Jon asks him.

Michael nods. He watches Jon empty the rest of the bullets out of the gun.

"I'll take care of this. Do you need a hand inside?"

"I'm not leaving you out here."

"I have to bury him."

"Where? And how will you get him there?"

"On a horse. I told you, the desert."

Michael shakes his head automatically. He knows he can't ride like this.

Jon glances up at him. "You have to stay here, Michael."

"I don't want you to leave again," Michael tells him.

"I'll come back."

"Please," Michael whispers.

"I promise. Do you need me to help you inside?"

"No, I'll be fine."

They study one another, and then Jon reaches out, touching Michael's hair gently. "I love you," he whispers.

"I love you too," Michael breathes, and the words rush up and choke him again, making him latch onto Jon's jacket. "I love you so much. Thank you - thank you."

Jon presses their foreheads together. "I would do anything for you. Now please go inside."

With another weak sob, Michael does as he's told. Inside, he finds Miss Adelaide not even pretending to work in the kitchen. As soon as she sees him, she drops her cloth and envelopes him as he leans into her.

//

Jon's knowledge of the shipping companies, and a pocket full of bills, helped him secure a horse and cart from the docks with no questions asked. A stolen sheet from a laundry line concealed the body, and a shovel from Miss Adelaide's basement took care of the rest. He gets home at dawn, dirt crusted and exhausted. He pumps some water to pour over his dirty clothes, and rinses them out as best he can before he goes upstairs in his unders. He still feels stained, somewhere deeper than his clothes or his skin.

Stained, and relieved of some great weight, too. There are two fresh graves in the scrubland outside the city, now. He regrets neither.

In his room, Michael is sleeping, curled up in his favorite robe, looking like a bouquet of flowers himself with pink and blue and purple bursting across his skin. Jon has to take a deep breath at the sight. He reaches out and strokes a wave of hair back from his cheek.

"Musling," he murmurs. Watches his lashes flutter, his eyes slowly open.

"Jon..."

"I'm back, it's done," he says unnecessarily.

"Are you all right?" Michael asks.

"Of course," Jon says dully, as if he hadn't spent the entire time remembering the way the blond thug's bones had cracked under his fists; the way the trigger of Parker's revolver had clicked. Maybe Michael sees it anyway, because he sits up carefully; folds his arms around Jon's neck.

"I wish this hadn't happened to us. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault. You don't deserve to be hurt, or frightened, for anything in the world." He hears Michael inhale against his chest. "It's all right, mus," he soothes him again gently. "My Michael, it's over."

Another shiver. Michael fists Jon's undershirt tighter. "I want to come with you."

"Are you sure?"

"I am, Jon, I don't want to be separated again."

"I could stay here with you." He cups Michael's face gently and lifts it.

"No," Michael whispers, "let's get out of here."

"Really?" Jon can hardly believe it.

"Really." He leans up to kiss Jon hesitantly. Jon cradles his face and cherishes that his affection isn't tainted with fear. "The best times I've had are with you, in our room, or walking by the bay. That means more to me than my job. It's...just a job."

"If you're sure, we'll go when you're well enough to travel."

"I'm well enough," Michael whispers, "if you're - if we need to."

"You're not well enough. It will look strange if we leave right away." He kisses Michael again. "Don't worry. I was careful."

"Okay," he nods tiredly. "Come to bed now?"

"I'd love nothing more."

They curl up side by side, and Jon buries his nose in Michael's hair as he drifts off.

He wakes to sunlight and a knock on the door. Immediately vigilant, he jumps up to answer it. It's just Miss Adelaide, and she smiles ruefully at his expression. "It's just breakfast."

"Thank you," he accepts the tray gratefully. Their eyes meet and he can tell this is her way of thanking him. She closes the door again with a smile, and he takes the tray to the bedside. It should keep, but he wants Michael to have a cup of coffee while it's hot.

"Wake up, love." He rouses him with a gentle hand.

Watching Michael wake up is a pleasure in itself. He smiles as soon as he sees Jon. Jon's already smiling, tentatively but there.

"Morning," Michael breathes.

"Breakfast is here."

"Like being in a hotel," Michael purrs.

Jon chuckles. "A fancy one."

"Absolutely." Michael sits up carefully.

Jon fixes him a plate and hands it to him in bed. They sit side by side on the narrow cot and eat a while in quiet, until Michael makes a considering noise.

"So how far away is it, this farm?"

"Peter left Wyoming too, after what happened in Black Rock."

"So - where are we headed?"

"North of here. It's farming country."

"How long will it take to get there?"

"A couple days of riding. It will be long, but - do you ride?" Jon asks, struck suddenly by not knowing.

"I do, in fact." He smiles lopsidedly up at Jon.

"Well, that's good. You're brilliant, so I know you'll be a help with the books and such."

"Of course." Michael brightens. "I can lend a hand too, I'm not work-shy."

"I know," Jon murmurs. "Not until you're better."

Michael nods, sipping his coffee seriously. "Very well." He looks over at Jon. "Eat, please."

Jon does, with a faint smile. "Getting bossy again."

"Always. And let me remind you - You asked for it."

"I'm very happy to see it. Means you're not scared."

"I'm not. Not with you."

He can't express his relief. Not with words. He just leans to kiss him. His mouth is soft and tastes of coffee. He slides a hand into Jon's hair to keep him close.

Tricky boy. As if Jon has any wish to go far. He kisses him deeper to demonstrate.

Michael makes an oh-so-familiar noise in his throat. Jon strokes down his back gently and pulls back with a smile. "Guess I'll eat now."

"Good idea." Another sharp little grin from his boy.

"Full of them." Jon watches his sea-blue eyes with a pang of pure feeling. "You're beautiful," he murmurs.

"I'm a mess," Michael tells him.

"Yes." He huffs softly. "It doesn't matter."

"I know." Michael finally sets the plate aside. "I want to go talk with Miss Adelaide, Jon. She should know our plans. And I want to know if she's heard from Emily."

"Sure." He nods. "Would you like a bath first? "

"Only if you get in with me."

Jon nods. "I'm open to that."

"Glad to hear it." He beams softly. "Will you go -"

"Ask for water? Of course." Jon sets his plate aside too.

Miss Adelaide obliges him some hot water, and help carrying it up the stairs. She greets Michael briefly but leaves them alone. Michael seems much brighter now, carefully stripping off his shirt and moving over to the tub where Jon has deposited it in the path of a sunbeam. Jon helps him unwind the bandage from his ribs, lowers him gently into the water. He sets the soap and wash cloth on a nearby chair and then strips off his own clothing.

Michael's little hum of pleasure makes him smile. As long as he's enjoying himself. He squeezes into the short tub opposite him.

The warm water feels good on his skin too. Michael's thighs against his are smooth and firm, pale and lovely. He has to touch. Michael makes a soft noise of appreciation. He stretches out as much as his sore ribs will allow, luxuriating in Jon's hands passing over his thighs and hips.

Jon watches him close his eyes like a cat. He lifts one arched foot out of the water, cupping his delicate ankle, and kisses the inside of his calf.

Michael's sigh is a little silvery thing. He drapes his foot smoothly over Jon's shoulder, tugging him closer with his foot. Jon reminds himself to be gentle. But he leans in and kisses him even so, cupping his face gently.

"May I wash you?"

"After last time? God yes."

"It's my privilege."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes," Jon assures him, reaching for the soap. He starts with his hand, tangling their fingers briefly.

Michael's eyes turn adoring. "God, you're so special."

Jon just hums and continues. Michael gets to giggling when he washes under his arms. He makes a bit less noise when Jon shifts to his chest and shoulders. A bit of a wince here and there, then, that Jon soothes with kisses. The spicy smell of the soap rises up in the steam from the bath and surrounds them.

In the morning sun, the hush of the town before the hustle and bustle starts proper, it feels isolated and intimate. Jon always feels like they're somewhat in their own private world, and it's the only place he cares to be.

He's feather light over Michael's cracked ribs. Down his stomach, between his hips. Michael makes a soft noise; he's clearly moved even though he's in pain. The urge to taste his skin is sudden and inescapable. Jon touches his tongue to the curve of his shoulder, above his collarbone. He feels Michael's hand curl up into his hair. He approves.

"S'good, Jon."

"Good."

He trails a few down his chest and stomach. The scent of spice fills his nose, Michael's skin so soft under his lips. They'll be together soon, he realizes, safe and far away from all this. The prospect of space, and time...he craves it. Almost as much as he craves Michael. He doesn't crave anything as much as he craves Michael.

"Jon," Michael hums, "love you touching me."

"I'll do it every day," Jon promises.

Michael angles down to kiss him again. "That's good, Jon. Really good."

"Glad to hear it."

The sun gets trapped between their kisses, blindingly warm, making everything gold and glowing. Jon lets Michael take the soap from his hand. Even so, he's reluctant to stop kissing him. But he lets himself be washed, and soothed. Savoring the comfort of their closeness before an inevitably uncomfortable couple of days and nights riding. Michael needs to rest, and recover.

When they're finished in the bath, they get dressed and end up slumped back together. Jon can't keep his hands off Michael, constantly soothing over his bruises and aches. It's too comforting, acknowledging his presence.

"Would you like to go see Miss Adelaide now?" Jon asks finally.

"Yes, I better had."

"With me?"

"You can stay here, it's all right."

"I feel as if I ought to."

"I know, love."

"So I'll come." It feels odd to be insistent, but Michael doesn't protest it. He just smiles. They help each other to their feet and go downstairs.

Miss Adelaide doesn't seem surprised by their announcement. Nor does she try to convince them to stay. She just squeezes Michael's hand very gently, and gives Jon a warm smile.

Michael pulls out the leather wallet from his pocket and opens it up. "I want to give you some of this, to help pay Emily's doctor."

"Child," she shakes her head, "you've paid me plenty."

"But, Miss Adelaide-"

"Keep it. Send us a postcard." She leans back in her chair. "When will you be leaving?"

"A few days," Michael says.

"We need to buy some supplies," Jon adds.

She nods. "All right, lads. Be careful in the streets," she adds.

Jon feels a prickle of surprise when Michael looks at him and smiles. "I'm not worried."

"I'll try not to draw attention to myself," Jon murmurs.

Michael smiles again. "A vain hope, with your looks."

Jon laughs at that. "Flatterer. More like my illegal nocturnal activities."

"I don't know what you mean."

Jon just shakes his head and sends Miss Adelaide a pleading look.

"He's all yours," she shrugs.

Jon smiles at his boots. "Yes." He notices Michael is grinning too.

"Get on out of here," Miss Adelaide tells them.

Obediently, they do. They hold hands on the way. Jon can feel Michael's giddy excitement even through their touch. Jon outlines quietly what they'll need to buy.

*

Over the next days, he and Michael make a number of small excursions into town. They stock up on a variety of clothing and personal items they won't be able to replenish for a while.

Michael, as expected, makes sure to buy extra soap. He also models his new clothing for Jon when they return to their room. Jon takes great pleasure in taking it off him again. His gorgeous young cowboy.

Of course, Michael's silk robes are still packed safely up. Jon has plans for each and every one.

His only plan on the morning they set off, however, is to get Michael to the farm in one piece. He's managed to acquire them a couple of decent horses, able to carry them and their luggage both.

Michael looks entirely too beautiful riding, the wind blowing his hair gently. He wasn't misleading Jon at all, he is a reasonably capable rider. Not that he doubted him. But he is a pleasure to be beside, even when he's complaining about the heat. He doesn't complain about much else.

By the time they're getting close, he's past complaints. Jon isn't much help; he has to concentrate on the directions Peter had sent him. When they finally arrive, Michael has a distinct tan on his chest and cheeks. He looks flushed and sweet.

"This is it," Jon murmurs, looking at the farmhouse ahead.

That gets Michael's attention. "And your brother - is he-?"

Jon waits, tilting his head.

"What does he know about me?"

"He knows plenty. He is a good person, Michael. We are welcome here."

"I figured you wouldn't have brought me here if he wasn't."

"Of course not."

They exchange smiles, and nudge their horses into motion once more. Jon smiles at the figure that emerges onto the porch as they ride up. When they're close enough, Peter raises his arms and hollers in greeting.

"Jon! Michael! Come on back to the barn, I'll help with the horses!"

Jon smiles. He's speaking in English, for Michael's benefit, Jon is sure.

As soon as Jon is off his horse, he's enveloped in a crushing embrace. "It's been a long time, brother," this said in Danish.

"Too long," Jon agrees.

"You are - happier," Peter comments.

"I'm getting there." Jon reaches for Michael at that; switches to English. "Peter, this is Michael."

"Michael," Peter repeats, holding out a hand to shake.

"A pleasure to meet you," Michael says, his accent sounding so crisp against Peter's.

"Yes, of course. I am Peter. Welcome."

"Thank you." Michael smiles softly from Peter to Jon, then starts to unload and care for his own horse, as Jon takes charge of his, and Peter bustles from place to place.

When they're done, Jon reaches out to take his hand and follows his brother inside. The farmhouse is functional and clean and comfortable. Jon can see little touches of home here and there, and they make him smile. It aches a bit in the pit of his stomach, arriving without Marie and Kresten. This isn't their first farm, the one with the lovingly prepared rooms. But it's close enough.

But Michael - he's so much more. Not better, but exceptional in his own ways. As unexpected as a flash of gold in the pan. Jon has never been a miner, but he can understand the thrill of it so very well.

Wordlessly, Peter takes one of Michael's bags and beckons them upstairs. "You must be tired," he says. "I can have a cold supper ready for later. You can see the rest of the farm tomorrow."

"You're sure? It's not late, I don't mind getting started."

"No rush," Peter insists. "You've been travelling for days. Get some rest. We can eat later. I've got things to finish."

Jon claps him on the shoulder in silent thanks. Peter shows him to one the spare bedrooms, brisk as ever.

"I only set up one, but I can dress the other if you want."

"No need to pretend we won't be sharing, I hope," Jon replies.

"I was waiting to see if you felt the need," Peter shrugs.

"Not anymore," Jon says, glancing up at Michael.

He smiles back, almost shy. "Thank you," he directs at Peter.

"You're welcome." He smiles. Then he leaves them alone in the sunny room.

Michael is looking around, a little flush. "It's big."

Nodding absently, Jon drops his bags and puts his hands in dust-crusted pockets. "You like it-?"

"I love it," Michael whispers. He turns to Jon, eyes bright, and reaches to gently cup his face. "I love you."

"And I you, Michael."

Michael leans up against him. "This is all yours and your brother's?"

"It is."

"We can stay as long as we like?"

"Yes. Forever, if you want."

"Maybe," he whispers. "Can we clean up and unpack?"

"Of course."

They strip out of their dusty clothing and share the water in the washbasin in the corner. Jon feels Michael's eyes on him as he stretches before selecting a clean shirt. Michael hesitates over his open saddlebag, a green silk robe in his hands.

"It's all right," Jon tells him softly, "wear it to sleep, mm? Peter won't mind, but you can ease in if you want."

Michael bites his lip, then nods. Jon reaches in the bag and pulls out a thin linen shirt instead. He lifts the soft patterned blue blankets, sighing at the familiarity even in this new place: they were at the last house.

"Sleep for a while?" he asks.

"God, please."

Jon holds out his arms. Michael presses himself into his chest with a long sigh. They curl together under the sweet-smelling linens.

Cupping the back of Michael's skull, Jon leans down to kiss him softly. His own hair falls over his eyes. "I love you."

He says it in between a dozen kisses. Michael's hands slide up his back, touch seeking. He lets him explore the skin, enjoying his sure fingers.

"Too tired for anything but sleep?" He asks Jon shyly.

"I never said I was tired," Jon teases.

"Oh, I see." He pulls Jon down on top of him, squirming under his weight. "It's been a little while."

"You're not still aching? Your ribs?"

"Not enough to wait, Jon."

"Well then," he chuckles. "How would you like me?"

Michael bites his lip, then drapes his bare thighs slowly around Jon's hips, pulling their bodies closer together. "Inside me," he whispers.

Jon makes a soft noise just thinking of the heat of him. Michael's kiss is promising, beseeching. For a long moment, it's all Jon wants or can do. Then he presses more fully to him; rolls his hips and sighs at Michael's stifled gasps.

"I feel like it's been forever," he tells the shell of Jon's ear.

"I suppose it has." Jon has been preoccupied with keeping them safe, getting them here. And Michael has been black and blue and wincing, though his improvement is palpable now. Jon shifts back to his knees, meaning to kiss him instead.

"Jon," it sounds a little plaintive.

"I'm here, darling."

"I want more."

"I know. We have time, let's take it."

"All right." He strokes through Jon's hair. "But I need you to keep touching me now," he teases gently.

"Where would you like me to?"

"Take your pick, darling."

"A generous offer."

"For you, anything."

They grin at one another. Jon unties Michael's robe and smoothes his hand down his chest. "Not so pale now," he teases.

"A light shade of almond," Michael chuckles.

Jon kisses his sternum. "Perfect."

"You thought that before too."

"I did." He trails his mouth over to one pink nipple. Michael shivers when he flicks his tongue and sucks gently. "Beautiful boy," Jon tells him.

That makes him sigh. "Jon, I want you so much."

"I know. Tell me what you want first." He moves over to his other nipple, letting his stubble scrape his sternum before he drags his teeth gently over the nub.

"I told you, get inside me, Jon."

"I said _first_."

Michael groans, face wreathes with love and impatience. "Suck me first," he whispers.

Jon sucks at his nipple again, deliberately misunderstanding. He knows how lovely and sensitive they are. Michael bites his lip and wriggles. Jon watches his curls spread across the pillow.

"Jon-" Michael arches on a sigh.

Jon caresses his flanks with gentle fingertips. His lips trail down the centre of his chest gently. Jon can feel his hips lifting. A gentle nip just gets him whining. A harder nip only seems to make him louder.

"Michael," Jon laughs softly.

"You know what you do to me," Michael gasps.

"I suppose I do." He soothes the mark with his tongue, tugging at Michael's waistband.

"Jon, please."

"Patience, mus."

"We haven't fucked yet, and I've known you for months," Michael complains softly.

"We won't wait any longer," Jon promises. He strips him out of his shorts, and then finally his robe. Then he leans to unpack a small bottle from his bag.

Michael bites his lip as he watches him. Jon knows normally he does this part himself. When he resituates himself between his thighs, he leans down to kiss his stomach, sighing softly.

"Pull your legs up for me, musling."

He does, swallowing heavily. Jon slicks his fingers carefully and circles his tight pink pucker.

A soft sigh; Michael stretching out and settling. Trusting Jon with his body. He bends to mouth at his slowly firming cock in reward. Lets his tongue play over hot skin while he presses slowly with his fingers.

"God," Michael whispers. "Jon, god, that's exactly -"

Jon swallows his cock down further as he slips his fingers deeper. Michael's body opens up so sweetly. He's holding his hands over his face, bridging needily. Jon breathes his name again. He sucks faster, though still gentle, blood heating just at the feeling of Michael swelling against his tongue. All this...his.

The thought makes him slowly turn his fingers. Michael keens a bit louder at the twist.

"Yes - do that again please -"

Jon flicks his tongue and twists again. Another beautiful little moan. Jon keeps going until he's making them with every breath.

"Jon you - oh - you need to stop -"

Jon pulls off, stilling his fingers. Flushed and panting hard, Michael touches his shoulder, leaning up to his him deep.

"I'm ready for you," he whispers against Jon's lips. "Let me go on top?"

Jon nods, helping Michael to shift to the side, still reluctant to pull his fingers out. He feels so hot and soft inside. He'd love to spend more time doing this. But Michael shifts away, turning onto his knees in front of Jon, guiding them both until Jon is sat with his knees beneath him, Michael easing back into his lap. He feels small and solid and hot in Jon's arms, tipping his head back against his shoulder as he lets Jon's cock ride between his thighs for a moment.

"More slick," he mutters.

Jon obliges him, spreading some over his cock and slipping his fingers back inside Michael for a second to hear him gasp. "Ready?" Jon whispers.

"God yes, please-"

"Hold still for me, darling." Jon steadies his hip with one hand and lines himself up with the other.

He feels Michael shivering as he pushes inside but he's too overcome by the tight heat to speak. An unexpected current of desperation takes hold.

"Michael," he gasps, hands clutching.

"Yes." He stretches his hands above his head and touches at Jon's hair, hips circling.

"Michael, god, please." He runs a hand down the delicate curve of Michael's spine.

"Please?"

"Show me what you want."

He hums in assent, body moving in a smooth wave to draw off and then sink down again. Jon gasps, leaning forward to get his mouth on Michael's neck. As Michael rocks down, he bridges up to meet him, and they're both gasping in seconds.

"You feel so big like this," Michael tells him.

There's no words that Jon has breath to spare for, so he just snaps his hips faster, burying his mouth between Michael's shoulder blades.

Michael has no such problem. "I want you always inside me, you feel perfect inside me, Jon, I just -"

"Yes," Jon grits, pulling him faster, their skin slapping. "Anything you want, love."

"God just more, don't stop, fuck-" his hands hit the headboard, back bridging helplessly. Jon bends over him, curving their bodies into one dynamic wave.

Watching Michael move back onto his thrusts is hypnotizing. He's lost to his own desires. Lost to the feeling of being one with him. He groans into his ear, eyes squeezing shut. He reaches to grip the headboard atop Michael's hand, their fingers twining. Bodies totally in synch, it feels impossible that they ever might separate.

"Fuck, Jon," Michael breathes, " _god_."

His head hanging down, he moves even faster. It's electric, charged with bone-deep desire. He wraps his other arm tightly around Michael's shoulders. Feels him tip their cheeks together feverishly. His breath catches midway through Jon's name.

"Faster," he pleads softly.

"Til I feel you come," Jon breathes. He jags his hips at a punishing pace, gritting his teeth at the effect of Michael's panting, pleading cries. He can't stop, doesn't want to. Even with a lead pressure building at his core. Michael first. Always Michael first. He sees one of his hands slip down; feels the corresponding squeeze of his body. "For me," he pleads.

"Yes, yes, yes-" Michael's head is drooping, his body straining. "Jon - _fuck_..."

Jon can feel him coming, he realizes. So quick. So endless. "Michael," he clutches him tighter. He can't help but keep his own hips moving.

A rough breath of overwhelm; Michael grips back at him again. "Please," he whimpers.

Jon presses fully in once more to the deep heat, then pulls out, pulling Michael round to gather him in his arms; give panting kisses. He's so close, but he needs, wants. Michael grasps double handfuls of his hair, pulling their mouths together. It's sweet and frantic. So is the way he searches with his hips to join their bodies again.

Jon hauls him into his lap with a soft groan. They slot together easily enough, Jon gripping Michael's thigh to ease the slide back down.

"Too much?" he asks, but Michael shakes his head.

"Fill me up," he urges in a whisper.

Jon kisses him and starts to rock up. His body craves it even as his heart swells from Michael's sweet kisses. He needs it; needs him. He's so very close.

"Michael," he breathes, "god, I love you."

Michael whimpers. "Jon. My Jon." He cups his face in his hands.

Jon allows himself to be kissed greedily as he snaps his hips up. He can't stifle the noise of need that rises up in his throat. It shivers up his spine and through his chest.

"Michael - it's -"

"Your turn?" Michael kisses his cheeks.

"So close-"

"Please," Michael begs. He rocks down faster to meet him. His body still open, still hot and tight and everything Jon could want. He pushes his face into his neck and lets go.

They both groan at the feeling, sudden slick and ripple of breath-stealing sensation. Michael clutches him tightly. They breathe paired, ragged breaths for a long while.

"Don't go," Michael whispers, "stay like this a little while longer."

"Until I have to move," Jon tells him.

Michael nods and hides his face in Jon's shoulder. Jon strokes through tumbling curls.

"Are you happy?" Michael whispers.

"Yes, Michael," he promises fervently.

"Good. I'm really relieved."

"And you?" Jon asks.

"I'm content," Michael murmurs. Not the same thing. "No, Jon," he must feel him stiffen, "I can't see how I can possibly deserve this. That's how much I love you."

"Don't scare me like that," Jon breathes.

"Sorry," Michael huffs a laugh. He kisses over Jon's cheeks. "I never promised I'd be good at this."

"You're doing fine."

"So are you."

Jon strokes his hair back again. "Stay here." He goes for a fresh cloth and more water. He feels Michael's eyes follow him. They glow at him when he returns.

He stretches out on the blue and white patterned sheets, flushed and flawless, allows himself to be tended to and checked over. Then he accepts the drink of water Jon gives him, drinking half and handing the glass back before he stretches out.

Jon stretches out beside him. Michael turns to face him, fingertips walking over his skin. "You're so beautiful."

"Nothing compared to you."

That makes him smile. "You had eyes for me from the beginning, didn't you?"

A sigh escapes Jon as he considers the question. "I thought you were the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen."

Michael smiles. "Before you realized what trouble I was?"

"I knew you were big trouble," Jon chuckles.

"Well," Michael stretches, "that hasn't changed."

"No, it hasn't." He kisses Michael's temple. "I hope it won't."

"That's a relief." He looks up at Jon, eyes soft.

"What did you think of me?" Jon asks. "At first?"

"You were so sad, I felt - a connection with you. I felt like I needed to help you."

That makes him swallow. "You do help me."

"I'm glad, Jon. But when I got to know you...I couldn't help but fall in love."

"You seemed quite insistent about it," Jon hedges.

"About getting to know you?"

"About knowing I wanted you."

"I was desperate to have you," Michael admits.

That makes Jon feel warm and humble. At the time, he hadn't been ready. He strokes his cheek gently.

"You have me."

"I'm so glad." He curls himself into Jon's lap.

Cuddled up against the thin pillows, sharing heat, it's as close to blissful as Jon has felt for many months. A hopeful beginning at last.

"I think I'm going to like it here," Michael whispers.

''Me too, Michael, me too."


End file.
